Tuesday, March 14, 2006

8 minute poem

Our snowlady is slumped, tired and sad,
with no hope of recovery.
She is past her prime.

The gentle rays of the sun,
life-giving to all other forms of life,
slowly melt away her very soul.

She leans forwards, shoulders sagging,
head lolling, until at last she falls.
Her gravel teeth clatter on the ground,
twiggy hair soggy,
carrot nose rotten.

We gave these inanimate things life
for one short wintry day.
Now they lie, dead again,
while the daffodils push up around them.


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