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.
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