the snowman lives at 74

charcoal hills made of stop motion snow
squiggles line the spills of quills like make believe
they dance along the Sony’s static

i gleam into a bulbous glass –
my tiny handprint
a clickety click –
i’m inside the snowman

my tongues all fuzzy
and i can smell green carpet
a tattered brown peeking through
a carboarded blue
cassette case

white blobs for snow
and the wool of an unwanted ballet cardigan to hold me through it

i dance with the snowman
my bowed feet peeking inwards

i could only dance when someone didn’t want me to.

she could always dance
along her own misshapen stars

i now keep her safe
i store her magic
the stuff she didn’t know she holds
a star sowed in snow –
now grown.