The Snowman

My lines are just diaries;
They hold no objects aloft
And say, ‘take heed of this,
It is beauty!’
Nor do they stand atop
A great height, looking down
On civilisation,
Though I see how small we are.
They are written from eye level,
While squinting, cock-eyed,
At things which obstruct me,
As I try too hard to be wry.
Why did someone not tell me when
I was a child, scribbling snowman stories
That I and the snowman could fly?