Mala
Our glacier has melted. That glorious hillside, Where the snowblower piles the snow. In it’s finest state, I run to the top to roll, dig, and slide, The snow cooling my warm skin Cleansing my white fur.
It’s May now, The snow and ice are gone, Back to dirt and rock, Balls hidden away all winter, Revealed.
The meadow where we frolick Is now nothing bu…