The snowmen sit in a huddle,
melting warriors with hats askew,
ready to sing of anger and the hot tears
of one little boy who doesn’t have
a costume. Inconsolable in his wellies.
The devastation of wanting a carrot nose.
You believe it will snow for Christmas
just as it does on every ad on the TV
but this morning the streets are wet with fog,
mysterious clouds that turn the tinsel lady
into a ghost of a nursery rhyme.
I hold the song of your belief in my hand,
so fragile, so pure, so full of magic.