Colin F. Jones

SNOWMEN

~ 1 ~

‘Tis a self made mist that diminishes sight,
On foggy mornings that are bright,
With confusing sun rays that do chill,
The desperation of our will,
To force our feet to advance one step,
Believing self to be inept,
Thus sliding backwards down the hill,
The momentum causing habitual thrill.
Somehow though we all survive,
It is only the dead that are not alive,
Time and wisdom marks our place,
Where we do share another’s grace,
For all that matters after all,
Is being where we do not fall.

~ 2 ~

And though we are all snowmen made,
To melt away as seasons fade,
We can if tolerance has its way,
All share some portion of the day,
For jam may not be marmalade,
But both to spread on bread were made,
That love and joy be shared at least,
In sanctuaries where there is a peace,
That overrides the common claim,
That people must be all the same,
Else be not spread on bread at all,
And by the wayside be left to fall
Where from I rose to start again,
Much prouder of my unique name.