Perfect for Packing

Feb 21 2012

The snowmen are forlorn, this year.

It’s been warm

snow, scanty.

They stand there crooked, sagging

where sun-warmed sides have sunk.

They have a glazed look,

through countless cycles of freeze and thaw

to a glossy crust.

Eyes dropped-off

noses lost,

hats

toppled, and gone.

Like lumpy old men

they await the end

of this glum season,

make a dull winter

look sadder still.

Grass has appeared

in ragged patches

the colour of straw,

like balding lawns.

The pavement is bare

stained with salt.

Banks of snow

are brown, and pitted,

eaves glistening

drip ...drip ...drip.

The neighbourhood has grown older,

and few kids

make snowmen anymore.

But today’s new snow

has white-washed the world,

made it over, fresh.

Perfect for packing,

and next-door they’ve erected

the fattest snowman yet.

Who seems delighted

by the act of creation,

a snowman’s meagre life.

The street alight

with his cheery smile,

electric red.

Making all of us feel

9, again.