Snow.

Snow.

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,

And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground…

…

The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.

My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

                                                                “Mowing”

                                                                Robert Frost

Maybe then a shovel whispers when it’s shifted

and jimmied beneath the pile of snow falling falling

and landing and staying put snow that’s above our heads

in banks and piles they grow they narrow the shoulders

of our roads snow snow this rubbed into life

white white strife in the clouds white in the charge icy

white drifting behind its sister to our view who receive it

in muted and gagged whispers—all that grass’s done

with.  UG!  December’s snow is buried beneath all this

and has nothing at all to say or nothing we or our

shovel can or cares to hear months now beneath there.

First falling last melting.  Ha!  Come May when our greed’ll need

green and push it into June we’ll let that grass grow

to our knees knees we’ll fall down on and lift our praising

heads and say Oh Oh look sweet Jesus look.

It’s time to mow.