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The snowman sensed a contended slap pat.

And gloried in a child's fresh delight,

as the small boy gave him his deep button eyes,

his proud carrot nose and his bright yellow scarf.

He embodied the joy of the child,

as the boy clapped and danced around creation:

his object of wide-eyed wonderment.

The snowman stood quietly, patiently,

in the home of his winter garden.

And stood suspended in the long moment

outside time's ticking shadow, beyond

the pointed hands of clocks' relentless tocks.

He was careful to stand stock-still, to make sure

he didn't disturb the boy with a nod

of his head or a twitch of his branched arms.

He knew the moment was as solid

as compact snow.  But he also knew

that the time will come for the drips and drops:

the flow, when form will shift to new arrangements.

He sensed to keep quiet, to allow

his small creator his moment in the pale sun,

before things became pitter-patter.

Time to allow his small creator his moment,

before he grew up to point at whom and what

- was abominable.



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