Winter Work
Snow piles thick
like skin of lost pachyderms,
the ones filed into burnt
tomes of obsolete
glossaries. Shovel in hand
I plow with fortitude
into bellows of white,
a knee’s worth, sugary
and full of honeycombs.
Slopes and muscles meet
and I scoop into wicked
luminosity, slay lathered
pathways and toss
the blizzard into
the mammoth’s toothed void.
Amy Nawrocki 