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:
‘Dream’ is an important word in this poem, and, oddly enough, we first hear about the landscape dreaming. This changes the ‘we’ of the first line– it’s clear that the valley has an imagination, and memories, too. 

New Year Snow