melting in the sun. His life had begun
on a cold December day, with a round
pointed nose. And two twigs for arms. I’ll often
remember him with a cherry licorice grin

curled upon his face and his top hat
out of place sliding on his bald pate. This heart
began to thaw. But as the days marched on,
so little of him I saw.  He couldn't stand

the heat. And every day we meet, I'd have less
of him to hold. As spring danced into blooming
gardens and dandelions he sprung a leak. By April
he was just a puddle at my feet. He dried up at noon

leaving only his hat and scarf in the silver
shadows of the moon. Was he made up in this head
from all the books I read? Or was he a rolling
stone that couldn’t find a home?