Nothing is more certain than a Snowman’s death.
My proud six year old grandson made it big
twice his size, with help,  weeks ago.
He strutted, he commanded,
he endowed his Snowman with a prick
black and up; a rakish angle.

The sun ages a man, all of us,
takes ‘up’ and turns it down.
In the dwindling it falls off,
the sun rains the snow,
rain fills the snow
and night freezes the heart rigid.
Sun, snow, rain, work,
the grand fades,
the icy lump collects new snow,
stays small, stubborn,
as all us old ones are.

Kent Bowker   3/6/2014