Mismatched button eyes, leaves for arms,
a big amorphous blob with a smaller blob plopped on top,
the snowman my five and a half year old made.
Jaunty string scarf and the oh-so-cute-and-carroty nose.
And he'll most likely melt by the end of today, if he hasn't already.
He's a happy little snowman, but he's not meant to last.
Like all things, he appears and disappears,
a collection of endlessly recycled atoms
building and rebuilding and rebuilding
something turning into nothing
and then into something again
over and over and over and over