Look At This Cold

Look at this cold.
I stand solidified, surrounded by
the thick, dark fabric of denial.
The harsh face burning cold
reminds me to keep
my arms stiff, fingers
flexing inside black mittens.

Look at this cold. Slowly slipping
out the door, taking daily
meditation and blankets on chairs.
That cold rushed back in today;
capricious, the end of
this and every season.

Look at this cold! The wilderness of quiet
outside every door. The long darkness
brings the blurry shovelers out.
Something good about bending down,
shoveling snow, knowing your neighbor
labors at the same work.

Still, my hands want spring now
not clutching this long handled shovel but
digging with a spade, no gardening gloves,
cutting through dense,still cool spring earth.
Rolling off peices of brown dirt from fingers
fastened a moment ago, on bulbs,
those fat spring eggs of flowers.