An early March snow brought down all these branches
Cracking and crashing throughout a long night,
Piling them impatiently in the yard
Like jacksticks in a child’s messy room.
The stepladder I used to rake the ridge
Stands like an awkward sculpture draped in white
Bellies of bulging snow piled on the steps
And a perfect barrel resting on top–
A meticulous testament to God
Pulling one more trick from winter’s sleeve.
It reminds me of impermanence–
Our shaky place in the scheme of things,
My sixty years of New England winters
In the sultry moodiness of winter’s grasp,
And the fickleness of expectation.
It is a poet’s job to measure things
And juxtapose words upon a blank page
With the same crystalline efficiency;
To make sense and form from infinite flakes
And give the world one more chance to see
Our place within eternity.
