Clearing Ice
Mammoth cold this morning.
There’s been an ice-storm.
Creaking and walking
boots talking
shovel in heavy hand.
Robins pounce on frozen worms.
The wide spade
snatches at the frozen turf,
its red plastic mouth scooping up
small glacial heaps.
Soon I tire, soon I sag,
flinching beneath the wind's frigid lash.
I throw the shovel down,
defeated -
going to toss bird seed,
feed those robins,
maybe save the life
of a few stiff worms,
make hot cocoa.
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