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Puddles

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Spring follows winter with indecent haste;
ugly moor grass pokes from under the ice.
All of that beautiful snow gone to waste!
Nature toys with us like some cruel device:

Just when a mind grows quite used to the cold
a warm wind creeps in and stirs up the mud
and no lambs are bleating yet loud in the fold
and not a branch bears something close to a bud

Why must all goodness be so fast forgotten?
A cheery snowman once stood guard on the hill
now he is melting; his carrot is rotten
he mounds to a puddle, a dark, angry spill

And nothing will ever recall once again
those coveted days of sledding and snowmen



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