first attempts at making poetry: after the snow storm
The sun climbs up over the trees
forcing itself on the sleeping
Autos, like a colony of large
ants, crawl along
the road plowed down to black ice.
The warming sun transforms the slick dark
macadam into a polished
Through the window that is my
early morning portal
I watch the trees, soldier-like,
saluting the arrival of another
day, and all the days before this,
that like the pages of my book,
close one after another.
Making our way down the driveway
with shovels, we work
to rid ourselves of
the magnificent whiteness
that is our prison.
The scorching wind whirling
Our shovels scrape the macadam,
exposing a coal black exit.
The birds of winter laugh
as we dig our way out
of paradise to race back to