The Mother Press for poem

he will not spill it

upon the ground

forbidden by postal


   One day...
blends into the next with snow and more snow, not enough to stop life here, but enough to create mischief in our yard. My car -- the old one -- sits unused, door gaskets frozen against their frames. We argue over who will not drive this day. Today and yesterday brought a more immediate paralysis by ice. I wrote this poem without malice or picque. It is my gentle winter poem, dedicated to members (both genders) of the US Postal Service.