philosophy of snow shovelling

In sunny surf he woke to hear the snow:
the muffled strident rhythms of machines.
He coughed; a spasm tore his chest; he sneezed;
yet soon he’d trudge out shoveling in the cold.

The trees were puffed in white, each twig aglow;
poets vie to pantheize such views;
children would dress snowman for the news;
and he is  heaping pyramids of snow.

Inside his parka beats an ancient heart;
and just behind the curtain watching wife
worries, wonders at each pause for breath;
he thinks how in a week it could depart,
how sun and rain could sweep away this life;
and with a giggle contemplates soft death.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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2 Responses to philosophy of snow shovelling

  1. gudgey says:

    YO man, maybe you should end this one with the april showers may flowers rhyme. Let a sonny sleep at night.

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