Melting Slush

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.