For three days we waited,
a bowl of dull quartz for sky.
At night the valley dreamed of snow,
lost Christmas angels with dark-white wings
flailing the hills.
I dreamed a poem, perfect
as the first five-pointed flake,
that melted at dawn:
a Janus-time
to peer back at guttering dark days,
trajectories of the spent year.
Obviously Horovitz’s forgotten (‘melted’) poem was perfect. Obviously. Because we can’t prove otherwise. 
 
 The speaker is willing a more substantial snowfall than this one. 
 There’s also something in these lines that recall Coleridge’s Kubla Khan. Beyond simply the dreaming of a perfect poem that through either human condition (Horowitz) or accident (Coleridge) can’t be fully recalled, there’s also the odd mirroring of the hyphen: ‘five-pointed’ and ‘pleasure-dome’.
New Year Snow