Poem #35: The Thaw

In every other yard, the gravel eyes of snowmen and women slide
a tear-like procession downward, carrot noses tip and tumble
from Picasso faces to land in gritty snow, where they shrivel
and become host to spongy black mold. Buttons jump off one by one.
Mouths sink inward or fall completely away. Rains fall, cleansing
it all. Tree limb arms cannot hold themselves up. To make the leap
from the playful occupations of children to death, the ravages
of disease, or a loved one slowly leaving seems adolescent,
like the poems filling the local college literary journal, titled
Footprints or Airy or something like Fate and Fury,
but it’s February and the sun has been absent for weeks.
I’m not alone; this neighborhood breeds artists and writers
and others who must see more than merely snow when driving by
all these melting shapes. I write these words: "The slip from
whiteness and form to nothingness summons something like sadness," and consider submitting to the aforementioned journal.
Almost no traces of the inches of snow that fell over the weekend,
except these grey, jagged half-bodies—a solitary round ball
wearing a skirt, a headless snow-being holding a broom,
as if chores must still get done. The collapse, the melt,
the thaw—torsos hanging on, but letting go. And those of us left
shuffling around in galoshes, picking up the mess,
the clothes in a soggy pile. Scarf on a lump. Standing there
staring down at what was. Did we even snap a photo
of this? A damp hat in hand, I wonder where to put it now.