There’s always snow to shovel,
to clear or move around, transported
from here by my door to a pile
piled high already, snow-thrown,
and a path from there, plowed
or pitched, carefully cleared,
to my car, “just in case,” an emergency,
or perhaps a planned trip calling me out,
this necessity forcing me from the warmth
and comfort of my hearth and home,
reminding me where I live, the North Country
subject to winter’s snow and cold,and the beauty of a winter's day.
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