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.