snowglobe

All's well they tell me, never better
. . . who am i to know?
with all their titles, their fine psychology degrees;
becomes a habit, just a switch
to put a simple guy like me at ease.

yet tho i haven't read their books; haven't but my Em to know,
i ask if sitting hushed upon a stool , nose against the pane for hours
soft chin pressed against the sill;
initials writ into her loose fit clothes;
 her tangled thoughts dissolved into a field which fills the casement with its snow,
. . . is well?

then hold your patience little bird,
don't sulk the white away
'cause i will come one fathers day i pledge, to spite their charms
to trick their locks, their gates and soft alarms
and save you from your glorious spell.