Snow, as heavy as death,
How you break the frail back.
Shoveling is a gladiator sport, and
Winter is the lion which slays you.
Roar the oncoming hordes of flakes.
Sodden mittens clench the staff,
A blade against an unrelenting foe.
Blisters in anticipation.
Hurl the churlish weapon in futile rage.
A pain given is a pain received,
For every shovelful is death to someone.
And snowmen weep when the sun comes out.
Latticed crystals mock in six-sided glee
Covering once more the open ground.
Laying the monstrous earth to sleep.
Writing epitaphs in mounds of white.
TheDustSeason 
Kiri, this is fabulous!!
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I speak from my soul…or in this case, aching back…when I write poetry.
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hahaha 😀
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Lovely poem, but I’m so sorry that you’re facing more snow this winter!
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Well, we slipped the leash as long as we could. But, once more, we are winter’s bitch. (Sorry, it just seemed too apt.)
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Oh, yes we are in the thick of it.
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Reblogged this on TheDustSeason and commented:
As the fourth snow day in a row reveals the madness of winter housebound by frigid air and fluffy white stuff, I am revisiting a piece I wrote in 2015. Truer today than it ever has been.
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Kiri, thank you so much for sharing this poem of yours with me for Poetry Partners! I’ve responded to it and published it here at The Skeptic’s Kaddish:
Much love,
David
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Thank you so much. I’m hesitant to put my writing, especially my poetry, forward. I never feel my work is ready for the light of day, but eventually, I love a piece enough despite its flaws, that I feel it is safe to share. So, thank you.
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Kiri – I’m so honored that you chose to share this poem with me! It brought up memories from decades ago, as you can see 🙂
❤
David
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