As we brace for the coming storm and I hear the plows already roaring by up and down the street, this struck me as more than appropriate.
by Jane Hirschfield
Even in his glass cabin you can see
the man driving the snowplow
is whistling, happy. He races
one road, then the next, moving new snow.
A monk patiently hammering gold leaf,
before him the world grows pliably, steadily brighter.
And if more will fall again tonight,
He will put on his hat, his gloves,
and make again order.
All day the plow’s sound rises,
a pre-Gregorian chanting singing its singer.
Gold of winter sun grows thinner and thinner.
he can lay it right in with the little plow.
The scriptorium darkens over white vellum.
The lengthening ink stroke, puttering,