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A Patch of Old Snow
There's a patch of old snow in a corner That I should have guessed Was a blow-away paper the rain Had brought to rest. It is speckled with grime as if Small print overspread it, The news of a day I've forgotten— If I ever read it.
The sun is not in it, But a few of the stems of the corn Have turned there for the sun, And instead of winter’s water, Mocking-birds are in the wind. They bring their groceries to the place Where the wild winds still blow.
And it is a fun to see the children Becoming snow people. Just as the rat faced at its dawn, Sat in the sun, So do the times there turn solid as ink.
There is a small area of old snow in a corner That I should have realized Was a piece of paper blown away by the rain That had come to rest. It is dirty as if Small text covers it, The news from a day I've forgotten— If I ever read it.
The sun is not shining on it, But a few corn stalks Have turned there to seek the sun, And instead of winter’s water, Mockingbirds are in the breeze. They bring their food to the spot Where the wild winds still blow.
And it is enjoyable to see the children Becoming figures made of snow. Just as the rat faced at dawn, Sat in the sunlight, So do the times there become solid like ink.