Last night it snowed up to my knees,
piled chest deep on the roof,
settled like butter icing on blue spruce,
filled the crotches of skeletal maples.
Slowly, slowly, I take baby steps
like everyone else in this belt of snow,
shoulders and thumbs doing most of the work.
ear protectors muffle the swish of peacock blue
nylon, the guzzling engine, the pass
of the snowplow just after I’ve cleared the drive.
I open a path to the maple bush, another
to the studio, one to the compost.
Passages to sweetness, work and decay.
Acres of snow blow back into my eyes.
A cold sun glistens.