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!!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I speak from my soul…or in this case, aching back…when I write poetry.
LikeLiked by 1 person
hahaha 😀
LikeLiked by 1 person
Lovely poem, but I’m so sorry that you’re facing more snow this winter!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Well, we slipped the leash as long as we could. But, once more, we are winter’s bitch. (Sorry, it just seemed too apt.)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh, yes we are in the thick of it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
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.
LikeLike