Underneath the snow, stairs lie.
A short stack, maybe five or six.
Concrete. Simple. A bit of artwork
painted on the risers.
a sprig of green grows still in one corner.
The winter will be long.
So the prognosticators say.
Long and buried in snow,
no great storms, only a few inches
every day or so, enough
to assure the stairs will stay
covered all season, or
you will spend the season shoveling,
a more probable outcome.
a daily work, a daily investment
in moving here to there,
despite the elements,
despite the gods of weather and their fickle teasing,
you know the path exists
only a shovel full away.
About this poem.
It’s about snow. It’s about life.
The stairs are near my favorite diner.