Evan Tarrh

Gloved hands worked with love, though caked with snow.

The older one marveled at his sibling with sorrow:

“Why make a snowman if it’ll melt tomorrow?”

Soon the youth returned, eyes bright, cheeks pink,

Tugged an arm. “It’s perfect snowman snow, I think!”

“Soon you’ll learn: these are days for a textbook.”

The younger cast his brother a sad, careful look.

The snowman, on the other hand,

Looked past a landscape bleak and bland,

Through a window, and silently mused,

“Why spend life cold, detached, confused