The last snow

April. A sad time.
Its rain and slush. Then the blues
take you by the scruff of the neck. And then
you go, further away, from the yard.

The snow is still white in the forest,
but its melting. The passage is difficult.
And soon, with the awakening of the rivers,
a friendly ice drift will begin.

Then the grass will appear,
and the willow will bloom luxuriantly.
And maybe my blues,
in the bright sun, will disappear!?