The snowman ages
in the bitter cold sun.
One solitary eye
remains on his face,
his carrot long gone.
Icicle tears drip
from frosted visage,
worn by polar wind,
pocked by weak daylight.
Soon the ground will drink
his vital fluid.
He will seem gone then,
’til frozen winter
restores cold spirit’s
imagination;
to rebuild his life
when it snows