"I find snow inspiring!" is my only explanation
to puzzled passers-by for the snow obelisk -- sculpted sentinel
overlooking painstakingly cleared parking space.
My canvas is sidewalk stroked from curb to lawn
(A shovel's-width path an affront to artistic taste).
In the obelisk's shadow, I am scarab
rolling ever-increasing piles of soiled snow
onto great white sarcophogas
holding frozen secrets until spring.
Nocturnal shuffles release a powder to dance in my face,
fairy dust of the frozen muse.
Street lamp light gives a glitter to individual flakes
creating an hypnotic pseudo-motion to stationary mounds
while roof-top snow's glacial march ends
in six-foot icicles.
Record breaking accumulation is reason to dance.
This winter, God played
with the flake-and-water-filled crystal ball
keeping the snow swirling in constant motion.
Tonight's one-to-four is just the fifteenth shake.
And if you listen closely, you can hear Orson Welles
saying "Rosebud."
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| Copyright � 1996 Ian Lynch. All rights reserved |