Shovel dirt on a crisp day
in your sweatshirt.
Sit to rest and, with a sharp knife,
quarter and core a granny smith.
Peanut butter and honey each bit.
Chew magnificent
and pity the two great tastes
of peanut butter and chocolate
as they trip just shy of delicious.
Miserable, miserable sad cats,
uncomfortable and depressed,
their ears are damp and folded flat;
their tails are limp and wet.
The day is cold as it is long
and makes their faces frown;
their bodies huddle in a throng
and snow keeps coming down.
They sit—their thoughts are on the dog
where fire warms his hide;
they think, if he gets up to go,
we’re locking him outside!
The silver paths beneath me rise, they brighten and sustain;
and I, by measured stride, rejoin their whited old refrain.
The snow, like fairest company, this night has come to call
till barren branch and evergreen are heartened by its’ fall.
Till, luminous, the moon reveals the way upon the row
and I, in bright reflection, lose my burdens as I go.
Till boots conceal their little plots of white upon the track
then rise to leave their mark upon the polished silver back.
The silver paths beneath me rise; the night is bright as day;
and I my measured stride release beneath their drift and sway.
You (And I) Said...