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Poem	Old man in the crystal morning after snow, Your throat swathed in a muffler, your bent Figure building the snow man which is meant For the grandchild's target, do you know This fat cartoon, his eyes pocked in with coal Nears you each time your breath smokes the air, Lewdly grinning out of a private nightmare? He is the white cold shadow of your soul. You build his comic head, you place his comic hat; Old age is not so serious, and I By the window sad and watchful as a cat, Build to this poem of old age and of snow, And weep: you are my snow man and I know I near you, you near him, all of us must die.
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