Dear God,

I had truly hoped

To give up shoveling snow for Lent.

I’ve failed.

I’m sorry.

Truly sorry.

Really really really really sorry.

I don’t think I can say

To even You

How really really sorry

That I am.

For beauty, I could hardly ask

For better than the place each grain of snow

Had chosen by the random flow of chance

To rest upon the ground.

Certainly each place I’ve labored to uncover

Lacks the sweet serenity

Of ground that still lies dreaming

Beneath its argent comforter

Of snow.

Nor can I claim the hills and ridges I’ve created

Match the simple loveliness,

The subtle curves,

That gentle the harsh character of earth.

My only claim upon your mercy

Is, as always, your great love,

And just perhaps, the promises I’ve made

To you and some among your children

Which now I may just keep

Because I’ve moved

Your miracle of snow.

Amen.