THE SNOWMAN
He’s always been there,
scattered about the ground,
wet and cold and waiting.
But it takes other peoples’ hands
to put him together,
to gather what is hidden
in the white landscape,
and make it something real.
Other peoples’ hands: even
through mittens and gloves
they are warm
and their warmth melts
the snow into the shape
of its becoming.
These are the moments
the Snowman remembers most:
the touching of the warm hands,
the smoothing over surfaces,
the warmth.
Then the cold comes again
and he is alone.
His body tightens like a fist,
his black eyes coal and hard,
staring.
Richard Smyth
Posted over on Anabiosis Press
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