Crusted with oil and soot,
These crags of late March snowfall that refuse
To go away though crocuses break sod
Lie sunning like a row of walruses.
No use to prod
With shovel, pick, or shoes
Their twice-refrozen icecaps. Taking root,
They hunker down, determined to endure
Firmly convinced that winter is for sure
And any thaw a passing aberration.