Giant Snowballs

All winter two giant snowballs stood in the center
of the trampled schoolyard, & another one
off to the side I felt bad for, then
felt foolish feeling bad for. Every day
I observed them through the chain link fence.

Three giant snowballs the strewn
parts of a would-be snowperson’s body.
I’m trying not to say “snowman”
but we know. He’s blank
and numb and separated
so much from himself. The segments of him
roughly equal in size: his head and his trunk and
the lower ball I won’t call legs.

Yesterday it snowed,
so today the kids build new ones
all different sizes & blindingly white.
On the snowballs’ sides where the sun doesn’t shine,
shadows fall, light blue and uncomplicated.

Beside the largest snowball
rests a much smaller one, and I can’t help
but see them as mother and child
& wow what a stupid human cultural mess.

Now there are six snowballs and I miss
my old loneliness.