Skip to content

The Snowman.

It’s winter—and we’re walking
on a path where
there used to be leaves.

You point me in the direction
of where the car ran off, right there,
right behind a series of bushes

that look like birds,
the skeleton of a path
left over

beneath the trees.
A mailbox marks the place, red
with rust and old wind—old

with something more than it’s just the wind again,

and you begin to look too far north,
up over a hill that’s become
a glacier

to a boy that is
there—that is not there—in the
distance.

Published inBlogging & PoemsMy Poems

Be First to Comment

Leave a Reply