I had truly hoped
To give up shoveling snow for Lent.
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
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.