Somewhere, there is a little girl,
building a snowman with a cold left hand.
Every time she touches the rough, frozen parts, she is reminded of
Hand-stitched stars and snowflakes
On faded black synthetic fabric.
It is just lays there
Like a dirty, insulated snake skin peeling of her hand
on the ground.
Stranded in a sea of linoleum:
Ghosts of footprints
Continuing past this enigma.
No one stopped to pick it up
To give it back to the little girl
In her front yard
Blowing into her cupped hands
Propelling imaginary miniature frozen windmills