snowman’s forecast
it’s corn snow
barely packable
more the stuff of shave ice
than snowman
but they’re off
in one of the last drifts
packing their palms with icy white
till their warm blood goes cold
and skin burns red
in the end
he’s pint-sized and perky
stick arms aligned with the poles
pointing the way we’re headed:
a year with no winter
three summer solstices in a row
