Chores
Dec 24 2008


I left the walk unshovelled,
a muddle
of boot-prints and densely packed snow.
Because it’s hard to get started
in the frozen darkness
of winter.

Hard to bring me to life,
after long cold nights
cocooned in heavy covers.
And the woodstove puts me under,
like the dog, half-asleep on his side —
soaking-up the heat,
his only greeting
the thump-thump-thump of a tail.

Yet the shovelling gives me pleasure.
There is the mindless task
the satisfying sense of completion.
And the order I find so pleasing
so easily imposed —
the ruled edge,
the smoothly scoured surface.
And in the cold clean air
— odourless
except for a whiff of wood-smoke —
there is the feeling of resistance
of muscle smoothly engaged,
stiffening up my legs …my spine …my shoulders.

I am reminded of lush green summers,
taming the lawn
in long even swaths.
And fall,
heaping-up leaves
like these mountains of powder snow.

And spring
when they will thaw —
tinkling into streams
of ice-cold run-off.
When all chores will be on hold;
except to watch
as winter’s grip lets go.

And the dog
bumping-up against the door,
barking for his freedom.