Wednesday, December 9, 2015

December 9


1 comment:

  1. 4 am exact
    The scraping plows begin
    Foretell how I’ll spend
    My morning hour.

    The boots wait at attention
    In their melted murk
    The stuffed coat spills
    Out the entry nook.

    Mittens where I left them
    Stuffed crusty into pockets
    Face wound into scarf
    Bracing for the chill.

    I open the door, where
    Two inches wait
    I footprint to the shed
    Grab the wooden shovel.

    Glad the powder’s light
    I pile the driveway edge
    As it quickly packs
    To a four foot fence.

    Finally at the front
    Of the red brick house
    I push piles from stairs
    Dust the wrought iron rail.

    Then there's a heavy sigh
    As I shuffle up the drive
    Breathing in the white
    Before it turns to grey.

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