i hate the winter,
but I love to shovel.
i love to shovel.
for that which is monotonous
always brings solace peacefully my mind-
wanders its way down from
those great, gray clouds.
i hate the cold.
it bites and stings
and cracks and wrings
my wrists and skin
to bleed and freeze.
they say cold is just atoms
moving oh so very slowly.
but why
must physical dictations
of molecular migrations
dictate an annual refrain
of death and plague
and hate and gray and
i hate the cold,
but i, i
i love to shovel.
the scraping sound the plastic makes
upon the concrete as it rakes
the chilliness, to respite makes
the drear and gloom, away it takes
they say the cold is some manifestation
or maybe, they said it was causation
the water freezing in the air
and on my lips and in my hair
if snow is just water that's so freezing cold
and cold is when the atoms are slow
then why can't I just be so bold
to move much faster than the air
for then i might try
and maybe id find
some sense of joy
as i lie still
in the cold.
i put down the shovel.
or, no, it falls away.
when i pick it back up, my fingers are dead and
cold.
i find i need not shovel anymore,
there's no snow here.
a truth so striking
no chasm-defying
neuron firing
flick, flick, flick, flick, flick, flick, flick
can wrap around it.
the shovel helped me move,
it kept the groove,
the pace at which
I self-soothe,
but now what?
its not cold anymore
but
there's no shovel either
now centering myself in this plight of liminality
i come to the following conclusion:
in the absence of the cold i should be so lucky,
however, i must not count far-fetchéd blessings;
to be so warm,
to shovel no more,
there's no snow on the floor
but the floor-
left to its own devices,
theres no cold and snow; but they were the prices
i paid; the menial vices
necessary to constrain
and retain
even chain
the floor to
the
ground.
the floor leaves the ground
when there's no snow around
with no shov'ling abound
the floor falls away, into the sky
and so, i find the shovel; an anchor
a monolith of regularity
maintaining my sanity's capacity to
acclimate to the cold.
i love to shovel
but i hate the cold.
i love the shovel.
so i need the cold.
gamechangershow
titsay
2087
snowghoul
stormborns
