After shoveling for a long time
scoop-throw
scoop-throw
scoop-throw
it becomes my only reality.
Even when I stop,
prop the shovel
in the snow,
lean into it
and look around
at the big clumps of white
on green arbivitaes
and the little clumps of white
on pink and red roses
I think:
“This is where I live now.
In a snow house
with a wooden table,
a chipped blue tea kettle
and a flickering lantern.
I have tea and I have books.
I am warm.
I will invite raccoons inside
and read to them
a book about mice.
We will share
a few trashy jokes.
I will knit them
small matching hats –
wait, I don’t know how to knit –
but I will learn.
This is my reality now:
The snow life.”
But then,
before I can
even forward my mail,
it’s over.
The snow is in piles,
the walkways
are salted and cleared.
The shovel is sleepy.
My cheeks are fiery cold.
Slightly dazed, I go inside,
to my real house,
not made of snow.
I make tea.
I open a book.
I yearn for raccoons.