With Every Christmas Card I Write

Christmas Eve has come and gone...and now during the 12 days of Christmas, I am discovering that I still have Christmas cards to write.  But it is tough business, this writing of Christmas cards.

Although some people are dreaming of a White Christmas, I am already dreaming of summer.

Toward that end, here's a poem I wrote last year that asks the question:  what happens to the snow man when he melts? 

The Snowman in Summer




He dreams deep dying of leaf to frost,

The windshields covered with hominy dew,

When the sun consumes in its holocaust

The remains of an old year not yet new.



With coal-black eyes, though apropos,

He twists his stick arms avant-garde,

Entombed in sleep until the snow

Shall resurrect him in the yard.