A foot of snow descended on the house,
All fall at once and we pretended joy
At such a purty fluffiness, and broke
Our backs and shovel blades, and prayed that spring,
Spring would arrive, but not because of us,
The snow grows grass and lubricates the bulbs
Stripped from their husks it promised and delivered.
Summer, which disbelieves in snow, will swear
Sweat is the moisture agriculture named,
But summer lies, and winter lasts: within
The master bedroom wall a cache of snow
Waits and concedes no melting, never melts.
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