washwords

Peeking yellow, red
Tulips break the cold, dark, earth
Yet, still I shiver

Tired of winter
sniffling frozen noses
Grey, slow, roll of cloud

Yesterday, one ray
pierced straight through concrete path
I caught a glimpse: spring.

for more Washwords’ (and friends) haikus see Haiku You

The car breaking down, the writing I have (and want) to do, feeling less blah and more superstar at work, not reacting to perceived injustices with emotion and drama? I’m working on these.

But shovelling? That I can do.

[Mr. Moon, DonCsabito on flickr]

It takes me home, to my youth, to my first quasi-grown-up experience: college with my green snap-together plastic shovel in my Nissan Maxima station wagon trunk, digging MYSELF out, getting my own snow tires (or not), falling for the “winterizing package” at Jiffy Lube.

But shovelling? Shovelling is home. When it’s powdery bluewhite crystal, and swishes off the plastic and crinkles under your toes? A chill in your nose, but the light from the house warming your path, showing you are not far from your long winter’s nap.

Winter walking? the whoosh whoosh crunch of the still blue night and my boots and mittens swishing and stretching. That is home and it is a good one.

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