Boots on feet. Shovel in hand.
Crunch of snow underfoot.
Scrape of shovel blade on cement.
Exertions exhaled on the breath.
The steady rhythm of set, step, push,
lift, toss, turn and traverse the space
settles mind and time into a stillness
that sings until the job is done.
Moving from the driveway to clear
the walk to the front door,
the sun peeks ‘round rounded peaks to the East.
The expansive stretch of new day dawns on me.
Pristine white snows hug the trunks
of deep green pines that lift soft eyes up
to the vast brilliant blue Colorado sky
once the storm clouds have passed.
By now, car’s engine, seats, and radio have warmed
And worries turn to treacherous roads.
And as she drives off, sighs are visible as warm breath
Freezes in air thinned by altitude.
The white blanket that fell this week reminds us that
Beauty and peace stroll hand in hand with fragility and fear.
From warm bed, shovel set aside, driver faces waves of terror
In icy reports from streets of Paris, Lesbos, Leipzig, and Evergreen Parkway.
Systems in shock. Brakes lock. Nights, now days, of Broken Glass. Bombs,
bullets and shards obscure the light. And boom, Luria’s big band theory,
puts the shovel back in hand, the power to raise the sparks, even
shovel-fulls of flakes, and clear the way for dawning of long-sought peace, today.