Digging Out

Feb 8 2019

The smooth surface

of virgin snow

has been wind-blown into long rolling waves.

And in the incandescent light

as night slowly falls

glows a softly luminous orange

as if warmed from within.

The path from the back door

has become an escape hatch

through impassable drifts,

exactly one shovel-width wide

and now higher than my shoulders.

Where I stoop to dig,

the steady rhythmic motion

of a long practised chore.

Each snowfall, I have cleared this path

as if staking out my own small tract

from winter's vast dynasty,
skirting the house 
from front to back.

Until it has become a sheltered tunnel

between white vertical walls

that, like geological strata

ascend through time.

So from old compressed snow

to freshly fallen flakes

I can read its sedimentary layers;

a section of ice

from that near-thaw and freezing rain,

a carboniferous line

from the bad firewood

that sputtered greasy black smoke.

Down here, the wind does not penetrate.

And in the warm flush of exertion

I pause

to survey my work.

The virtuous glow

of manual labour;

the satisfaction

of something you can measure and touch

of a tangible end

of having done.

And feel as if time is on hold

as I gaze out on the accumulation of snow

from the last 3 months;

the world suspended

the season frozen in place.

Storm-stayed, and in no rush.

Because in winter

we have permission to slow

or pause

or even stop,

and often have no choice.

As I lean on the shovel

mind adrift, body at rest

chin on hands

and hands crossed.

Night settles-in,

and with the absence of motion, the lights click-off.

Only the sound of the wind

my regular breathing

and the last of the snow,

falling softly

in the heavy dark.