Grace and Peace to you.
Earth is playing with us.
City quieted by heaps of silence,
no one out but plows
moaning up and down the roads,
pickups lurching in and out of driveways,
back and forth
like peasant women grinding meal,
like the rabbi at prayer,
and shovelers lost
in little blizzards of their own making.
Snow up over your knees
is dang hard to walk in.
Half a day shot shoveling,
raking the roof, digging out the mailbox.
Fingers numb. Sore back. Snow down
my neck. Nose feels brittle. Why
do I love this so?
Perhaps that I am flesh,
weak, warm-blooded and in need
of a way being made,
a little white canyon through this heaven,
that I’m an earthling
and not the other way around,
that maybe paradise itself
is not without struggle,
that I wouldn’t be happy
without Another’s hand so, deft, upon me,
without being once in a while hemmed in,
defeated, even hurt a little
by this much beauty,
this much presence, this much
swirling, heaping, drifting mystery.
Up the street, two little kids
slide on their backs down the pyramid
at the end of their driveway.
Copyright © Steve Garnaas-Holmes