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.
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 