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
poem by Marjorie DeBol DeFazio
Added by Poetry Lover
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