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