Shoveling Snow

In long strips, I am showing the sky
the ground again. I am careful, turn
it over, check what is hiding underneath.
At the edges, the daffodils like bristles,
the yellow heads saying, This is not
what we expected. Somewhere, the dog
is eager to wreck his paws, hurls
himself onto his back, makes an angel
shaped like Armageddon. I start
with what is necessary: the three stairs,
the walk to the drive, a path for the tires.
If I keep going, I worry I will wake the old man,
now three years dead. The dog barks
and I feel my heart stop. This is, of course,
hyperbole: Nothing ever stops.