Now It Is Sung

There’s still some snow,
Some old scraps still
In the pine shades,
On the steep hills.

Who cares what’s next
Who grieves what’s lost
And grieves what’s left
As soon to be

Lost? There’s more next
Than there’s you next.
Weep if you want. Tears,
They say, help you.

No end’s the end.
It starts and starts
And wears you out.
Sing snow. Here’s spring.