The whole time I shoveled the drive,
snow was falling. Thick drapes of snow.
Deepening snow. In every thin path I cleared,
new snow. I needed no higher teaching
to understand that things just come and go.
An endless process. And this was my place
in world—transferring snow from one space
to another, scraping out new emptinesses,
watching them refill, stopping to stare
as the world grew new. Heaven coming down
in great shovelfuls, more than one woman
could possible move. So humbling to see one’s limit.
More humbling still to let it fade—
not the limit itself,
but the wanting to push it away.