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Winter In The Fall

Five inches of cold, white, snow
Confront my door

Where is my shovel
Need I slog up the hill

Shall I clear my way down
From the shed
Past the unfinished greenhouse
Past the snow filled trench

The pickax and spade are buried
Somewhere beneath that soft, cold blanket

My warm fire is burning orange and blue

Looking out at a distant window light
The pure, clean of this first thick snow
Seems benign
Exactly right this morning

The unplowed road and driveway
Wait until the sun

November 15,1997

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