The Stories Winter by Themselves

Roberto grew colorful
As all his parts aged
On the frame of the story

That held him up to the light.
He rustled and he chuckled,
And anyone passing by

Found him to be delightful,
Even lovely near the end.
Roberto accepted this,

So long as he held his shape,
So long as he looked himself.
But one morning, passers by

Had to admit he’d vanished,
His story bare of him there.