|
| |
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.
Copyright ©
Ilene Bauer
|
|