Way back there in the corner,
There lives a lonely shadow.
He never comes out to play,
Which is quite a shame.
Trapped in the light so all can see
Everything he does.

We know he moves every hour or two.
Then, reads a book of mine.
I did not mean to let him use it
Because to share, they say, is to care.
We had left our books on the shelf,
So we could read them later.
I would not try to treat him bad,
As all the others did.
Hoping to play a game or five
Before the Summer ends.

I'm not sure how this poem would go
Written on the snow.