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Posts Tagged ‘shoveling’

 

 

For an hour and a half, my son and I

create emptiness. All those places

where there was snow

on the drive and the walk,

we shovel them until there’s a long,

sinewy swath of absence.

It is deeply satisfying,

this moving of matter

from one place to another,

creating a path, a way.

When we are done, we lean

on our shovels and revel

in what is missing. We high five

and smile and feel as if we’ve really

accomplished something together.

How oddly full I feel

after this effort of emptying.

How many paths in me

are waiting to be exposed?

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haiku

yesterday
deep snow
today we shovel light

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Most people have had not honored even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made.
—Bronnie Ware, Top Five Regrets of the Dying

Three inches of chicken feathers
fell overnight, and my son,
still dressed in blue striped pajamas,

went scampering out
to move snow. We moved
snow for an hour. Two hours?

We moved snow from one place
to another. We moved snow
and moved more snow.

Whose dream is that?
To move snow? But between
the stripes of asphalt and white

the morning filled in
with the richest laughter.
No reason to laugh except

we were shoveling and the snow
was light and the sky was gray
and it looked, hallelujah,

as if it might snow some more
so that we could keep moving
together outside, warm

and breathless and choosing
to shovel, to move piles of snow
joyfully from one place to another.

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