Shoveler
A storm brews just out of reach.
You clear a space for it.
Open, solemn, awake to brevity.
The in and out of breath.
The lift and fall of attention.
Let the blizzard come.
Let it drop its singular flakes.

Disguise
"Perhaps," I think, "I am not who I thought."
Am I in the disguise of the past, or,
the mask of the future?
Am I an empty window facing the future?
Am I to be found beyond what cannot be seen,
beyond the beautiful surface of signs?

Answers
But life should be more than waiting for answers,
more to it than just a room by room search,
the tedium of constant revision, prayers,
endless questions and supplications.
Living like this - the dark haze, so late in the day,
what else is there to do but clear the walkway,
make our amendments, and start again?