the early outlook of snow

the early outlook

of snow 

of course we can't watch it go

entirely, the whole foot

and a half of snow--measured

as it were by work rather

than yardstick or pole.  snow

goes in the dark too,

you know, so that by morning

days after the storm,

days after the men with shovels

dug and dug the requisite

three feet for your ciborium

shaped urn and later

the same shovel propped

like a guard fallen, scoop side

up, and a measure

of reflection if I were to lean

over it and give over

a little of the passing winter

sky withering by or maybe not

withering but instead un-

knotting, like a tie

at a man's throat, a man

not used to ties, who, after 

the long event, 

gratefully tugged, undoes

it and walks off into the still

something- about- to- happen, 

the auger of waiting, or not

so much waiting as yet waiting to

arrive, but that's days still, 

days (and the shovel's leaning now

against the house, having been

returned) and days off.