Meditation on Shoveling a Long Driveway
Sun rises into white branches.
Shadows stretch silent over the snow.
The wind came last night.
Snow is blown over the porch and against the door.
The deer came last night.
Tracks run through the woods and across the drive.
Later there will be birdsong and glistening light.
The wind will come again and bend the upper branches against a blue sky.
Now, there is a long driveway,
a yellow shovel, and work to be done.
The red skin of an apple nestles cold in unbroken snow.
Here on the driveway, the bite marks of a stranger are fresh.
I wonder who you are, you with the good arm
that pitched the apple past the slick slush of the road.
You nighttime apple eater.
You thrower of cores.
You who have carried the fruit of autumn into a snowstorm,
eaten it, left it, and moved on.
No comments:
Post a Comment