Last of the Snow

The last of the snow, in dirty batches,
Dots the land in random patches.
Stubbornly, it will not melt,
Kind of like how Frosty felt.

As the temps, though, start to rise
We’ll witness all this snow’s demise
And as it seeps into the ground,
It disappears, ‘til next time ‘round.

The crocuses are breaking through,
Preparing for their spring debut.
Impatient to unfurl their wings,
They thumb their nose at snow that clings.