Islands of Snow

It's early March and now, wherever I go,
I find little, lonely, stranded islands of snow.
The sun came out, you see,
And cut them off (like me).
With no friends left behind that they know,
They're little, lonely, stranded islands of snow.

They saw their danger and they hid so well.
Around a wall, beneath a tree, behind a hill.
But their friends remained behind,
Or maybe on the front lines.
So were these hidden the cowardly, or wise? I don't know.
But now they're little, lonely, stranded islands of snow.

They must be so lonely. That's easy to see.
They've been weeks without contact. They remind me of me.
They reach out but find silence.
They're almost tempted to violence.
What was it that caused all their fellows to go?
Who will answer their questions? For I'd like to know.
What's the reason they're little, lonely, stranded islands of snow?

I think I finally understand their woe.
This is just the natural process flow.
Some friends conspired.
Some just grew tired.
It happens in cycles; the same wherever you go.
Sooner or later, we are all little, lonely, stranded islands of snow.

Victor Mowery
Monday, March 11, 2013.