Digging the Artful

A low pressure system arrives,
stalls o’er Ohio, feeds environs
with snow en masse...

...Ugg boots are unboxed, winter coat
brown scarf and black gloves, I take
a final sip of coffee...

...then trudge through drifts on concrete steps
and press onto the garage, grasp the red
plastic shovel, dig in.  Push, lift low’s
offering, sky-born white sustenance.

  (Artful winter winds send snow
    over rows of white hills.)

Wet snow clings like pathetic hangers-
on, slaps as slush the edge of drive
as I wield shovel like a scythe.
Shoulders cry, and weeping
lumbar spine exacerbates
the bite of January.  As
such the rabid jackal.

  (Artful winter winds spend drifts
    of energy, rush with sheets
    of fleece.) 

Around me mini mountains, crystal ice.
Front steps unseen, the black pole
lamp a low-light spear arising
from abundant snowy deep.
Small pines wear white
like shawls, and I add
peaks by heaving
snow.

  (Encrusted bluffs feel the thrust of
    artful winter winds, become
    sculpted, carved, caressed.)


33 Lines
Writer’s Cramp 
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