The Snow Child

In the hushed caramel of dusk,

a face puckered and pale

against the ice cold pane

watched the children,

cheeks flushed, rose-pink lips,

dance ungainly and free

amongst the tinsel spread about

and ’round the glowing tree,

for one petite minute:

he did not feel his fingers,

– blistered – bloodied –

held fast against his chest,

he did not suffer

the grumble of killing hunger

that juddered

his skeletal frame,

he stood unmoving

‘til the lights went out.

Shoulders bowed

under the load of his pain,

he slid into the snow,

he did not notice the new day,

sense the children rousing,

their joy a hymn washing

through the house,

he did not see the door open

releasing a rush of warmth

spilling over the porch

and into the street,

he did not hear the family,

their cries of varied pitch

as they assembled around,

he did not feel the tiny hand

reaching out to pluck away the

tears frozen upon his face.

There are two things I know for certain. One: Bert and Ernie are gay. Two: I want to hear your opinion.

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