Snow is taller than the dog.
Though we’re both old with achey bones
I lower bare feet to the cold, hard floor
early from bed this morning.  I am called
to shovel snow because the dog
held it all night and now she has to go.

She squeaks and whines in her distress,
pacing a nervous rhythm to and fro
the door, annoying me to hurry-up
my undress and my dress.  I glare at her,
put on my boots, my coat.
I’m doing what I can; she’s wanting more.

So pressing is her need I give
no time to take care of my own.
“Here, here, a path toward a space!”
I yell into my muffler as I stab
and fling shovelfuls of snow
until there is a place for her to go.

Did I mention, in the speed of this kerfuffle
I neglected my own needs?  Too late.
Dog done, in strange paralysis I stand,
inspired by some dripping icicles nearby
or by that patch of yellow snow.  I’m not upset
as legs grow warm and wet.  I am

most mellow, leaning on my shovel,
looking at the sky.  Just going with the flow.

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