A response to "Boy at the Window" by Richard Wilbur.
Seeing the boy standing alone at the window,
Weeping at fate and the ending of the day,
He wonders at the part he had to play
And why his maker formed him out of snow.
Why not stone or wood or, yes, concrete?
He eyes the boy and sees in him poor skill;
To set him up like this, for such defeat,
Must surely say something about his will.
The boy at the window, engulfed by shock and fear,
Weeps as the man of snow sinks slowly on;
Bitumen eyes stare coldly when he's gone,
Accusing him, not having shed a tear.
He walks outside and sees what now is left
Of his poor friend born out of coal and snow;
He sinks to earth and knows he is bereft
Of all that which he thought he used to know.