What's Left

What’s left of the snow

Are some scattershot mounds,

The piles that from shovels

Stayed way out of bounds.

 

I spotted some toddlers,

In bright-colored boots,

Attempting to climb some,

With giggles and hoots.

 

What’s really a pity’s

That old city snow,

While pristine when falling

And perfect to throw,

 

Turns black from pollution

And leftover piles

Elicit annoyance

Where once there were smiles.

 

The melting has started

And, as it gets warm,

That blackness will vanish

And puddles will form.

 

Of course, we’ll remember,

In memory’s sight,

The mountains of early snow,

Magically white.