The street and drive outside
Are once again adorned
With argent splendor.
Overnight the overhanging clouds
Discharged their crystal burden
To blanket and bedeck
The sleeping world
Now rising to remove
Its hazardous allure
From thoroughfare and walkway. 
I, however, choose to heed
The siren song of inspiration
(And of Lenten obligation)
Which calls me to create,
Craft words, assemble syllables
Into a poem-prayer.
Come, heavenly and Holy One!
And fill me with a long and lengthy lay
That begs to pour itself
Onto this odd and insubstantial page.
Come, Spirit, come!



Come, Spirit, come!



I don’t want to shovel any more.








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