It wasn’t a whimper as he stood
in front of the picture window
looking out into the falling darkness
to eye the snowman—his creation.
But it was a heavy sigh, almost
like the weight of the world on him
because only faintly now could he see
the hickory nut eyes. Acorn teeth
and stick arms were only imagined.
Around and around the yard he rolled
to make balls for Grandpa to stack
into a human shape and he sculpted
the sneering smile before topping
the head with Grandpa’s straw hat,
a salt of the earth looking man.
He stood in the warm light
looking out into the cold dark
wondering, “Is he scared?”
He had always been scared
of what lurked in the night,
under his bed, or creatures
creaking through the house
as it settled.
As Mother tucked him warmly into bed,
assured him that the snowman could
stand the cold and dark and noises
of the night, the snowman’s icy stare
questioned the house and everyone
in it—almost like Adam looking
longingly toward Eden and God,
and the garden.