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.
And then snow fell.
Within an hour, a world immaculate
as January's new-hung page.
We breathe the radiant air like men new-born.
The children rush before us.
As in a dream of snow
we track through crystal fields
to the green horizon
and the sun's reflected rose.
An intense final sentence, in which the power of the dream is reintroduced, and we are given an extremely bright series of images– the horizon is green, indicating fertility, and sun the sun is fused with the roses it allow to grow. 
 
 Essentially, Horovitz throws as many fertility symbols as she can at the reader, and it pretty much works.
New Year Snow