Old snow has lost its poetry
the feathery flakes dusting fronds
        of fir and spruce in dazzling white
become gritty granules of grey ice
        humped in dirty piles along the edges of roads and driveways

No harbinger of spring, only its precursor,
winter stubbornly refusing to give way
        when its time is up
warm and sunny days belied by still cold reminders
        of Maine’s longest season

Old snow has lost its poetry
no longer a hibernal playground, just a nuisance,
        clogging ditches and slogging woodland paths
not a thing to wonder at but
        only to wish away

Alas! to have left glory and beauty and wonder behind
your only merit the fading memory of
        what you once were
now sullied and unsightly and unheeded
        you are nothing but an unwanted vestige