I’m out of here, I mumbled,
not so much in anger
but reflexively, and so
here I am with nothing
better to do when it’s
below zero than scoop
snow from the driveway.

I like chopping away
at the bank with the metal
grain shovel, slicing off
three-foot icebergs
and then plowing them
up the ramp with my
extra-wide push-scoop.

It’s a crisp cleaving sound
at 3-below, like a butcher
trimming fat from shank
whack-whack  against
a thick wooden block,
but my thoughts are not
violent, on the contrary,

I feel calm and content,
like a god carving a canyon,
trimming away rock into
pleasing curvatures, walls
that don’t contain my joy
so much as define it
within boundaries suggesting

A path to something more.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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4 Responses to Scooping

  1. I believe that path leads to frostbite.

  2. last stanza = brilliant

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