Veeresh Malik/Flickr

After the down blast,
The sun reappears.
Promptly, the features on the
snowman’s face
Wash away like useless tears.

What Valhalla exists above
For an expiring snowman
Bereft of love?
Is it a white chateau
Like Chennonceau?
Or the stronghold, marked
with pennon and crosses?

Or perhaps an architect’s
icy likeness
Carved from frozen slush
A spiked dome of Capitol,
Or the Royal Mounds
of Kush!

Photo by Chris Shaw

No, the snowman’s soul
Has fled, we know not where
Maybe straight up,
into clear thin air.
The flow of Time
and warming rays
Have melted down their
Earthly days.

Yes, the snow figures have toppled
Into one another– and,
I’m not lying; Now, they
tell me, It is Clowns, too
Who are dying.