The world was covered in a cool blanket of
velvety white as far as the eye could see.
No driveways, No walkways, nothing
but the powdery snow. Sparkling in all
its glory as if diamonds on a cold winter day.
The taste would be fluffy and wet, as if a
child's snow cone, with no favoring.
So silent a pin could be heard if dropped.
Out comes a man all bundle up tight, a shovel
in hand. The snow crunching under his feet.
The temperature dropping by the minute.
The world he knew all buried underneath
the cold blanket of snow.
Tossing and throwing the snow into piles
that builds hills, one shovel at a time.
Shoveling the driveway not a easy job to do,
but he stays in shape that way.
Drifting in the air is smoke from his fireplace
that spirals towards the sky.
The fresh smell of hot coffee filled the air.
The job all finish and then begins the snowflakes
falling as if stars from the gray sky above.
He stops and makes a wish, to have someone
come and help him shovel the snow all over
And all he gets is this poem.
Written in a warm house.
Sometimes wishes just do not come true.
So he starts shoveling again.
Not a creature stirring, only the man.