We pile them high
The slush taking shape
The sky made solid
In our hands.

Every one young or old
Likes to fabricate
The form

Armies would they be
If, like in cartoon,
They could attain conscious
Motion

But alas they are doomed
Like so many of us
To melt and evaporate
And return to whence they came

In the big melt
The sum's rays glinting
Fiery inferno
Causing gentle curving,

Maketh ice
Which forms puddles
Which give way
To earth.