by MFrost Delaney
The palest white, like alabaster skin
that scars so easily beneath the sun,
will melt away and soak the earth within
the seasonís cycle that has just begun.
And as it melts, each flake becomes a drop
that loses all its beauty, disappears
in silent crying, pleas to make it stop.
Yet no one thinks of snow as having fears
because the winter storms present their strength—
complexion fierce, that nearly conquers plows.
But even record blizzards know at length
they will succumb and have to take their bows.
I shovel these last springtide flakes to piles
and share their trickled tears for miles and miles.