Trees and Snowmen

Fog from my own lips makes a moist curtain
On the glass of a bus window I peer through,
As I attempt to count the snowmen
That sit like old men in many lonely yards.
As we pass,
They watch with hazy, hardened eyes,
Without a single greeting or comment whatsoever.
Yet, I know they're thinking something.
Some of them arch their backs toward the wet ground.
Their figure, strong and young at first,
Is now crooked and weak
From sitting through more and more days
That are less and less cold.
Time can age anything.
Even snowmen, who have no life to begin with.
Some of them have thin, wooden arms
Fanning from their round bodies
Like canes.
And I see the trees sitting beside them
Whose branches are now cut off.
They have a good friendship, trees and snowmen.
The Tree gives his white, round friend
Arms to use.
And, in return, the Snowman gives his tall, slender friend
Water for the next spring,
When he waves good-bye with his wooden fingers
And rests in his grave beneath the tree.
And everything is fine
Between the Tree and the Snowman.
They sit together,
Like old men,
Watching the young ones pass by.