I think she could see the shovel move
picking and turning powdery snow
with the residue rising to bearded chin
like so many winter days before;
different now, staring from same window.
And it was a snowy day that brought
the bare shovel to quiet,
the grip of cold seized suddenly
and fell into coldest blanket and white;
forgotten were the days
the hand raised itself
and struck in anger
venting rage, and pain
raining most ugly upon gentle woman;
no, forgotten are upturned bottles
and ravenous ruin of drink and excess
all put aside in her fervent wish
to turn back the hands... of time.
Silver trophy winner
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