He keeps a vigil steeped in woe
 Within a ring of trampled snow
And not so much as a hello
 To break his silent stare…

An ashen figure in disguise
 With threadbare hat and beady eyes,
Yet none who knows him would surmise
 He's warm enough to care…

With icy heart devoid of grace
 And frozen frown upon his face,
He never wanders out of place
 Or sits upon a chair…

Instead he stands amid the sleet
 And passes judgment on the street
While children clamor and compete
 And laughter fills the air…

Why does he watch in grim repose
 With haughty eyes and pointed nose?
Perhaps the frigid life he chose
 Has left him worse for wear…

It has become my secret goal
 To someday thaw his frozen soul, 
So when I pass him on a stroll,
 I say a little prayer.