breaking the ice path to the back door with a shovel
the blows must be repeated and prodded and hard
the ice lies shattered and I kick it for minutes
then go inside. Later there is a perfect blue sky
all the trees have a light that glows
and the crows and blue tits put the ice back together
If you have any comments on this poem, Bridget Khursheed
would be pleased to hear from you.