You have to really search to find them,
The last listless tendrils of snow.
They lie, cringing, in corners of shadow,
Rippled, ridged, feathered,
And flecked with the sand of age,
Withered by the balmy wind,
Crushed by a solitary foot Lately passed by.
Does anyone sigh
For these last tattered shreds
Of late glory?
Oh, no.
It's an age-old story:
We're quick to move on to new dreams.