The One Work
The dance of snow and
shovel –
this winter repeated
too many times to count –
falls into a rhythm
lasting long enough
to still the mind and
plunge
me
into movement of
blood
and bone and their
fleshy container
wrapped in layers of
cloth and leather.
Breath in. Breath
out.
Slide under, lift,
throw.
And there it is – the
frozen powder
flying through air
framed in vertical
lines of bare trees
wrapped like a gift
in pink and gold
morning light.
Now isn’t this the
same cycle
as any inner landscape?
A fall of deep snow,
unexpected,
frozen, still, more
than I thought.
I’m buried by the
weight of it.
I close my eyes, not
wanting
the work of it. Which
can’t last
for –
how else is motion
possible
than to get out the
old shovel
nicked and rickety
from long use?
A lifetime of use.
My own inner compost
needs more turning as
the years pass
and sometimes it’s
buried in snow
so deep that I keep
my eyes averted
until its demand
rises to a height
impossible – no,
dangerous – to ignore.
Then, not unlike this
morning,
I give all I am to
it,
to the shoveling and
turning,
to the rhythm of
slide, lift, throw,
to the breath of my
small being,
as long as Earth
holds me upright.
Breathe, slide, lift,
throw –
inside, outside –
isn’t it all the one
work?
And the clearing that
appears –
no greater reward
inside or out.
