Donald Traxler's Poetry
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Snowman
The snowman would faint
in our heat,
from his head to his
non-existent feet.
We'd rub his snowmelt
all over us,
and run, joyful,
in the wind.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Newer Post
Older Post
Home
No comments:
Post a Comment