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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Often after the fallen snow is swept, glory Is found when the treading surface is clear. A light dusting is a breeze to remove. For heavy slush I trade My broom for a shovel. It is foolhardy to pretend That things with bristles can glide Between and expand the substrate/snow interface. Between the air and my skin there is no interface Even my coon skin cap only provides small glory Reminding me that menthol shaving cream enhances the glide Of my razor and the sting of the cold air, but also makes clear My ambition to clear the snow away and not pretend To scatter dandruff from the icy landscape. It seems I must trade My alter ego of a cosmetologist for that of a cosmologist. Such a trade Will enable me to outgrow this climate. Then my interface Communication skills will improve so I won’t use silence to pretend I am a solid, deep thinking woodsman and I can just enjoy the glory Of making small talk about the weather, thus allowing me to clear My conscience about past regrets and glide Through interpersonal interactions moment by moment. Ah! To glide Like snow from the blade of a shovel, I wouldn’t trade That social grace for 10,000 driveways clear Of snow or ice or volcanic ash. Interface-- That common boundary, the transition from disgrace to glory As I become a cosmologist and no longer pretend That people are stupid zoo animals and hopefully not pretend That I am a stupid zoo animal. Seasons of the year glide Together and glide apart. Midwinter ice in all its glory Is dangerous and fun. Will you trade Your cramp-ons for ice skates? The seasonal interface From spring to summer is never clear. The same is true for the other seasons, let’s be clear About that. I have stressed this before and will again; to pretend Is to deny. Everything solitary has an interface With something else and therefore is not solitary. To glide Is to not experience friction. At some point you may want to trade Slip for grip. Never bask in glory Unearned. The web interface has clear Flaws, don’t be ignorant. Glory may never pretend To glide toward despair, but neither of those would I be willing to trade.
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