Why do people persist
In perpetuating the myth
That I can move around
When I can only stand my ground?
I'm fashioned of the cold.
A poked finger can drill a hole
But cannot reach a soul.
And when there's a thaw I will fold.
Melt into a muddle,
Soggy scarf steeped in a puddle.
So take a photo quick;
Before I go and start to drip!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Poor old snowman, doomed to thaw. Very good write, like it Maureen.