throwaway poetry project, 6

i watch my children play in snow

it's wondrous stuff,
and beautiful,
with a weight
and the white
that lies right on the
dead earth.
they throw it up
over their heads
and let it come down
all around them.
they twirl in the flakes.
rediscovering each other,
they launch an assault,
the soft balls
falling from their bodies,
indistinguishable
on the drifts.
tiring of this,
they decide
to create
a man,
rolling up the parts,
and fashioning him
just exactly
the same
as them.
they come in from the snow
triumphant.
they watch over the man
through the windows,
all smiles
and red cheeks.
under the moon
i see him relax
back into the
white blanket,
loosing the parts
and stretching out,
indistinguishable
on the ground.