Listening to every heart
Eight Tiny Snowmen
Over the hills and dales of memories
comes a winter long ago unto me
to the Dakotas my family did go
where I first felt cold, along with snow.
A Western girl was I at four
California born, knew summer’s door;
but ancestry was from the middle States,
travel there and you will relate.
Memories are full of warm
safe in aunt’s kitchen, no harm,
red-headed cousins all around
love, and food, did abound.
Cousins all were much older
Monday came, books on shoulder
as they laughed their way to school
I sat alone, there on the stool.
I must have pleaded, or perhaps whined
to go outside to play for some time,
but no mittens alone sat idly by,
no spare mittens; I probably cried.
But mother had the voice of intuition
and she made for me some little mittens
from several pairs of socks she found
in their drawers, just lying around.
A worn coat, warm scarves galore
she bundled me tight, then out the door
onto the porch, in the winter’s sun,
a little girl ready to have some fun.
I picked up snow for the very first time
instantly cold were those hands of mine,
but pat, pat, pat, little snowballs formed
from the grace of past evening’s storm.
And on that porch, so large, so grand,
I arose to a voice’s inner command
to show love to my cousins, undisguised
And formed seven snowmen ~ at four, so wise…
Each represented a cousin by height
and red yarn topped their snow-heads tight,
and then an eighth snowman, little and dear
to show them their family, I did hold near.
For the littlest snowman, why, that was me,
a little blond girl, for the redheads to see,
that I missed them all day, and sat in the snow
so when they came home, my love I could show.
2 February, 2000
Look, then, into thine heart, and write ~~~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow