#4

Shoveling Snow with Mary Jo

At twenty I say,
What is the worth of my life
and how do I weigh the brittle years?
At fifty, what if I say it again?
I say something different though.
I'll leave a spot.


Murakami talks to me about
shoveling snow as a writer.
I shovel and sweat to get deeper.
The heat in my collar expands
my head and I float.
Then a pinprick,
the cold mountain air descending.
I am Alice falling down low
into unknown. Just landscape.
No city trees king queen.

In twenty years, in ten
I am so different again and again.
This is ceaseless I restlessly
think and crumble. Building
myself a little better each time.
If I built as fast as the savings and loan,
I could save one or two phrases.
They float away harmlessly.
We tragically forget all that goes
on by the next fall.
And go on.