That first snow always catches me off guard

That first snow always catches me off guard,

despite the watches and warnings and predictions

of 1 to 3 to 4 to 6 inches of snow coming in;

I’m just not ready for it, not yet, not now,

not ready for the snow and cold of winter arriving.

Waking up to it, I groan, but the shoveling

must be done, the snow moved off the walk

and away from the doorways and cars, got to get out;

besides, no one else is going to do it, my appointed job,

me having the better back for lifting and tossing,

though I’d much rather not, too tired, or busy, or old, perhaps.

But once outside, dressed warm against the elements,

before my shovel even hits the ground, lifts that first scoop,

the world turns quiet around me with the silent fall of snow,

and if I listen closely, I can hear soft whispers,

snow crystals, barely heard, dancing on the breeze.

I am easily distracted by the glitter of snowflakes

glistening in the first light of the sun’s new rising,

and by the soft outlines on my snow-covered yard,

its imperfections perfectly hidden, smoothed over;

propped against my shovel, admiring this, I am reminded,

that first snow always catches me off guard.