On Not Shoveling

Everything buried shall remain buried

beneath the soft swales of shifting snow:

the planter, the grill, the broken bicycle.

One day accumulates on the next.

Inches after hours, feet after weeks,

until the world is a sharp lipped cornice

curled up against winter’s white mountains.

How inexactly these solitudes slough away.

How relentlessly they re-accumulate.

The ranks will rise, tied to ropes,

tied to roofs, white knuckled shovels,

eyes to windshields, hands to wheels,

plowing deep into the winter night.

Nothing but the sound of a storm

sweeping before it the new fallen snow…

and maybe three split shots hitting the water

before another fish sets the drag singing.


The FlyFish Journal Mailing List

We respect your time, and only send you the occasional update.