Sonnet To Beautiful Snow

A sonnet, this, to snow and not to slush,

     Neither to wind nor hail nor sleet nor rain,

     But snow, the beautiful, on hill and plain.

On you I pour this warm, poetic gush

Without a tremor and without a blush.

     Two feet upon the level, snow; alack!

     And me behind the shovel, and my back

Just broke in two beneath your mighty crush.

You may be “beautiful” to look at, snow,

     But not to shovel nor to wallow through;

     I’ve had enough, and I am done with you.

If any fool poet should want to know

     More of your wondrous “beauty” let him hike

     Here, take my shovel and see what it’s like.

Dec. 15, ‘04