Wint

There's nothing new to say about the snow
It comes each winter and it looks the same
Possesses that same half-angelic glow
Then dirties and goes grey with oily shame.
The frozen lake and river ripple by
The water underneath, as ever, seen
Only through the blue, for it is shy
And shows but indirectly in the sheen
The thin ice has. All this is always thus.
Winter has come, and winter is but this
A settled change of momentary fuss
A constant presence that you cannot miss
Until the spring, delayed, melts snow away
And breaks the old cocoon of white and grey.