Shoveling

Shoveling at night
while the powder settles.

Bare pavement underfoot,
soft hills on either side of the driveway.

Snow falls back onto the black
from the mounds I’ve made.

I clear what I can,
leave little behind, knowing

it will come back when my sore back
is turned.

I’ve been cleaning up after snow
most of my life, bending and lifting

in the dark, muscles crying out
more loudly the older I get.

Every time, I tell myself spring is coming
and for a moment, the pain stops.

Every time, it snows again
and I go out to shovel, thinking

that next time I won’t bother,
but next time never comes. I bother,

am always bothered, with drift and shift
I can’t forestall. So late at night

I bend to the task at hand. In the dark,
any progress is worth the ache.