The little snow there was turning to rain,

The half-globes hanging from the eaves,

Trembling translucencies glimmering

From within with their own light, and

In the middle of each a speck of dust

Or pollen, lifted up by prairie winds

From fields where now sodden stubble

Thaws and freezes, thaws and freezes.

Come Spring it will be plowed into the

Dark ground, the furrows harrowed,

Earth turning again in its seasons,

Dust rising into the air, into rain.