At winter‘s  end
a snowman grows
a snowdrop
on his carrot nose,
 
 
a little, sad,
late—season sniff
dried by the spring
wind‘s handkerchief.
 
 
But day and night
the sniffles drop
like flower buds
—they never stops,
 
 
until you wake
and find one day
the cold,old man
has run away,
 
 
and winter‘s winds
that blow and pass
let drifts of snowdrops
in the grass,
 
 
reminding us:
where such thing grow
a snowman sniffles
not long ago.