By Maureen Ash
The biggest one of course
was Dad, wearing
one of Dad’s hats, his usual calm
expression rendered in pebbles and a
slightly curved twig, his weed-stalk
arms spread wide. Mom next,
somewhat smaller, my smile tipped
on my smudged face. Two more,
small and smaller, one in a pink hat, carefully
arranged, and the other wearing dark blue, squashed on.
In the photo I took that morning the children
lean on their snowmen, cocky at how
they have invented us out of snow.
That icy family stood all winter, heads
tipped back, poorly dressed, thin
arms spread wide. Storms socked
their faces full of snow like cream pie
covering their placid expressions. We
needed our hats back, eventually.
Their demise was entertaining to the children.
My mouth slipped onto my snowy chest, Dad’s
eye fell out, Son lost his buttons,
all our heads fell off! One by one we
sank away into dirty piles, puddles, grass.
Which I have mowed now for years, the snow
family mostly forgotten as this real one
moved on, heads up, arms out, faces
taking the pies and the wind and the way I
had to sometimes pick my smile
off the ground.
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