The Snowman in Autumn

THE SNOWMAN IN AUTUMN


Here
on the edge of death
the Snowman smells the fallen leaves.
His time is coming
but has not come yet.
He is weary of the sun.

So close, so close the cold:
Christmas trees are for sale,
the paper bells hang in supermarkets,
ten thousand Santas shine their shoes,
men stand on corners ringing bells,
the night stretches its legs, and awakens.

The Snowman dwells on steam and rivers.


Richard Smyth

Posted over on Anabiosis Press