What I Heard Her Say As We Smashed the Snowman

I wrote this poem in 1995, reflecting on an incident that took place in 1994. Beth and I had been married a year, and she was finishing up her college degree at Roberts. I'd built a large snowman outside the back window of our small apartment in college housing for married students. A few days later, I watched a neighbor boy, about eight or nine, beat on the snowman with a big stick until it had broken apart. I was surprised and annoyed, so after he was done, I went outside and asked him why he had destroyed the snowman. I'll never forget what he said, because I think it reveals something profound about human nature. "I smashed it," he said, "Because I can't make one." This poem won honorable mention in a contest run by the League of American Penwoman (go figure) and is the only one of my poems that has been published (Syracuse Post-Standard).



What I Heard Her Say As We Smashed the Snowman


How can I blame the little boys
whose weakness jealously regards
that fresh-formed snowman in my yard?
With sticks and kicks they will destroy
that thing I made. Their brother roams
the cemetery late at night -
spraypaint in hand - defacing stones
whose faceless, helpless names invite
his sensed futility. And Saul
pursued Christ's followers to death
until joy's ambush brought St. Paul
to life with hope's redemptive breath.
It seems part of our mortal curse -
when faith unseen lies unfulfilled -
to think all prayer has been rehearsed:
we topple things we yearn to build.

11/15/95