This morning’s slush is melting
From
last night’s dust of snow
Which,
since it wasn’t pelting,
Left
little trace, although…
Some
little mounds keep clinging
To
surfaces of grass,
Enough
for snowball flinging
Before
the urge might pass.
This
weather’s awfully fickle –
It
almost feels like spring,
But
it’s more like a tickle,
Awaiting
winter’s zing.
Still,
I’m out by the river,
Just
soaking up the sun
Which
the heavens did deliver
To
get all the melting done.
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