morning in winter


fatigue that is

deeper than bones

in wiry old strength

today shovels

last night’s snow. more is

delivered fresh each morning,

white, new, heavy with the

weight of ice and

hidden dust. on the private stage of

grey-blue sky, each crystal

dances its own path,

shaped in lonely ways of its

own choosing, its flutter

choreographed to some music

that he cannot hear. but once they have

settled, lain down, capitulated,

he cannot see their differences:

fused by melt together they

conspire to make obtrusive mounds.

they cannot now

in graceful repose recline

nude upon the finger, nor

dissolve deliciously on the tongue,

but are fit only to be shoveled,

displaced, moved from the path but

never eliminated, piled on the side,

lingering in sight as he passes,

coasting, sliding in his wake like

ancient icebergs silently back into the

treads left by old tires.


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