Friday, February 5, 2021

Bury the Hatchet

Snow tires rest on my head

Holes in my socks 

from sweeping the floor

No roads are open today 


Labor is for the outside 

Shoveling the path

Knitting a sweater

Frying an egg


The words are right there 

just floating in the air

like big, slow, soft flakes

that melt on your tongue


Poetry is for the inside

Bury the hatchet 

Find the biggest hill you can climb

Close your eyes and throw your hands up