A poem

[ferretdad]

Inspired by recent weather.

Forgetting

The snow is gone.

I'd've thought last weekend's rains and warmth
would've washed it away,
but even yesterday
I saw its white patches from the road;

on the northern slopes of hills,
or shaded by overarching trees;
protected by bushes, or by rocks,
or where chilled air lay in hollows:
But today it's gone.

Somewhere, I'm sure,
deeper than I can see,
there's still one last patch of snow:
In a secret place, like the lingering memory
of a guilty pleasure, hidden

behind a rock, under a bush, in a hollow
on a northern slope, shaded
by the overarching trees, a secret

soon
-- too soon --
to be forgotten.