A snow plow's muted scrape
draws me out
of the dark warmth
and into the icicled world
taking me back
fifty years
to a sepia'd backyard
where a blacksmith -
my grandfather -
has piled snow into an Everest
in anticipation
of my return
from the classroom
where my antics
were overseen
by a young woman in full habit
whose occasional errant strands
of thick red hair
filled my awakening dreams.
