Encounters Of the Third Kind – Verse


I have a little snowman

Who isn’t made of snow.

I met a man who knew him

Before we two met, and so

I wasn’t surprised to find

He was the other kind.


When ‘ere the sun is out

His little arms they wave

And I guess this little habit

Will follow him to the grave.


Sometimes I want to stop him,

Offer him some tea,

See his black eyes twinkle

Looking back at me.


He follows his blueprint to a T

And just does what he aught

Alas I am  the other kind

who can’t do right for naught.

About Nan Mykel

At 79, I was just about to stop keeping a journal, but that felt like accepting that growth was finished. I don't want to be finished, yet! I'm 80 now, and struggling to communicate with you, if you'll come and set awhile. P.S. My how time flies! I'm 83 now.
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