Snow Job

I am eleven
Winter.
Offset against the ice clear blue sky,
a glittering blanket of fresh drift snow
kissed by the sun
squints the eye.

Swathed in a
red pompom ski cap,
orange geometrically puffed down parka,
worn thick wool-lined leather mittens,
unaccustomed long johns under faded dungarees
and
thick-socked shoes snug in
snap-buckled black rubber boots,
I stand alone
bathed in sweat.

At my feet
sixteen bare cement steps,
carved dirt-gray out of the ubiquitous white,
cascade crooked down a short but steep incline.

I spent the last hour
buried in the throes of a frenzied shoveling.
An inexplicable river of controlled fury
erupted from my very marrow,
coursing rhythmic and wild through my wide-open being,
and I could not stop until the steps were cleared.
Where or why I went I did not know,
but I went -
relentless.

The inexplicable, elemental river fades inexplicably.
Steam whisks about my flush-pink cheeks as
I catch my breath.
Nibbling off a mitten
I unzip
and
hollow out a jagged yellow hole down to the dark earth.
The crackle of branch-ice jars my reverie.
A shudder, a couple of jiggles, a delicate zip
follow a startled glimpse at a raw bare hand.
Bringing it to my face
I inhale commingled sweat, detached wool strands, glacial air, then
glance at our house.

Still some thirty odd yards of staggered boot holes away,
the wooden dwelling looms.
A realization dawns -
as magnificent an effort so far,
I am, at best, only half way done.

I timber-fall on my back,
angel-wing the snow,
then
freezing all movement
survey the cloudless sky.

A pale disk suspended limpid in the azure,
the day moon
casts an opaque eye.

Buoyant on the crescendo
of a child's impregnable love of Life,
I return the moon's inscrutability
with a longing, lucent and spellbound gaze.
Where or why I am I do not know,
but I am -
unfathomable.

Snow sliver-tickle shivers the back of my neck.
I stand,
slip on the mitten,
give my damp, white-flaked clothes a cursory, yet vigorous brush,
and
pick up the shovel.

Mum,
save for a
cadenced, icy wheeze
and a
sporadic, tuneless whistle,
I embark on a
drifting, indolent and easily distracted
snowbound labor
home.