What's left behind after the fallen snow
Turns terrible is what we must accept
As punishment for having snow at all.
Where the beauty goes I do not know
But it is gone, and though we love snowfall
We love it only with a small "except."
Except the slush that slides beneath our feet,
Except the gray and dreary look of it
Except the texture, granular but wet,
Except the way it covers an ice-sheet,
Except how it will never seem to let
Our boots escape the way it clings like shit;
All these are necessary punishment
For thinking snowfalls are all heaven-sent.
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