A November Like Snow Other.

 

 

 

On the 8th of November
while still rather
early for snow
precipitation turned
popsicle-ish.

The world a white canvas
My tiny son, a Picasso,
bending and twisting
into gloves, snowsuit and boots.
We stuffed ten stubborn toes
that felt like forty
into leather prisons.

Then with haste,
lest all should meltdown
we made tracks into
pure white fluff

Flopping joyously
with angelic form
into truly heavenly portraits,
impressions etched
in a fashion that swept our lawn.

Then miming his dad
in a dance that's always

known as the great Snow Ball,
celebrated at first snowfall.

Side by side,
synchronized rolling,
giggling at the

huge forms growing
leaving only grass behind them.

Creating small, large,

and some medium
body parts for frosty friends
assembled with loud stereo grunting
one soprano, one quite base.

The bottoms,
middles,
and "Ooooof," tops
of three November snowmen,
standing stiffly
in formation as a
six year old leaps gaily
all around his
frozen still life.

Soon enough inside
to sip hot cocoa
with marshmallows
and whipped creme tops.

We bathed our faces
in its steam
as we reflected
on all the magic
that this early
winter brought us.

But outside  
the sun began critiquing
those masterpieces we'd created
its heated glares causing
three very sparkling
works to whither
back into precipitation.

Where they mingle with
Autumn leaves, and vanish
from our view.

Leaving only sticks, buttons
carrot noses, and old scarves,
plus some memories worth an army
of the snowmen yet to come.

O0o O0o O0o

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