walking these snow buried streets, i gawk at the accidental monuments made by plow and shovel, how many fortresses must i climb on the way from here or there, (too many to count)
apparently this three pm window is ideal for neighbors to shovel their sidewalks. they step out in soft armor, as soundless as the snowfall. (does snow, i wonder, make sound fall short? i hear no echoing these days, especially from conversation, from birds, etc.)
i walk for groceries. many snowmen are battered in the park, bodies whipped and lost.
a friend texts and asks if i want to join their sledding. all i can think as we stop through foot tall snow and meet the edge of this stormy lake is that my mother wouldn't like me following these white people with wet hair to such places. i take my cardboard sled, ride it nearly to the water's edge, fill my pockets with powder.
walking home, the handyman has cleared my walkway. he lifts his machines into the truck bed, and if i hadn't said thank you im sure we would have never spoken
at the lakeshore disappeared, we must be standing on the rocks, but here is where we'll build the meatiest snow woman, she'll look out on the water, pretend it's the sea, and in our homes (like now in mine) i'll think of her.
: ) ) )
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