Abby plays her muted trumpet
to the soft piano patter.
Seth sits the baby blue grand
and James sits his armchair close.
Dad savors dark chocolate--
a by-product of caroling to
thankful neighbors.
Mom wishes he wouldn't.
She dreams of growing old.
Becky laughs with old friends
new with her mobile,
and old friends are the music
Seth is playing,
so chatter brings the warmth.
There is a book in Mary's hand,
or does she write to Joel?
She can not last each task alone
and loves them both in turn.
Now Abby plays the keys
and Seth, the strings with horsehair.
I listen to the rain outside,
but in my heart it's snowing.
Only the man packed firm of snowflakes
can match the warmth I feel.
He stands within the music
of the frozen chords--
the ones standing still in time.
Though time will move and pull and stretch
young faces 'till they're old,
stand bold
like frozen chords--stand cold
against time's bidding.
But older chords still young enough to play
are never cold,
nor ever without meaning.
The snowman is my frozen chord
of ageless warmth,
And as such warmth already,
never melts.
I am surrounded by the glow of
life in snowflakes.
