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.