The Last Snowman

The Last Snowman
(by R.P.Edwards)

Born and built
In winter’s thrust
The man is formed
From icy dust
And life from childrens
Hands and breath
With hope for play
And distant…death
Alas, the sun
Regains the sky
And all that’s frozen
Melts…and dies
Yes, all from winter’s
Final fling
Including snowmen
In the Spring

The winter coat, retired.  The beloved scarf, at rest.  And then the last incursion; the frigid blast that pushed past the calendar and the budding tree and deposited, for the birth of one more sentry, three inches of snow.

It was a fine one, too.  The traditional three baller; but tall, accessorized, and with a defiant tilt towards the street and, since I frequently travel past the spot, I saw its sudden inclusion in the scene and, since it is Spring after all; I saw it’s meager remnants on the ground a few days later.  A kind of life thing.  One day, formidable.  The next day…dust.

That’s it.  No political commentary.  No deep delving into the days doings.  Just a place holder.  A gentle offering to keep the motor idling.  A simple notice of time and effort and fortuitous frost.  Quickly done. Quickly gone.  Perhaps next week will bring weightier words. 

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