by Elisabeth Frischauf
As snow wanes, so my sorrow grows.
Treasured scarce, too soon gone
we’re forced to compress our games—
forget snow boy’s eyes (the hour wan)
snow girl ears—just shove in twigs!
As dark cold’s steady march intrudes
Quick to the hill! Slide by sled or ski
short hours joy intensifies (to be sure)
there are those who prefer a heater,
salt and curse the winsome drifts,
the fluffy glitz, a horrendous bother—
Hell, the car’s so clear and now another blitz?
Listen deep. Listen. Below tree roots sing:
This year we got water to last past spring.