the frozen chords

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.