three feet of wet snow
on the roof of the shack
I shovel the decks
the steps
and the roof of my house
but the shack hunkers
down while the beach
drifts up
and the hillside sloughs
from the mainland
all I can see is the windows
and the trim board on the high
side of the shed roof
in my life
there is no time for writing
and less time for shoveling
the path to the shack
buried by winter
and my neglect
Jonas Lamb 