March

Day blows in from the east, swirling time in its breath
time I will spend shovelling

pain into my back and feet,
regret into piles along the path.

Drifts whiten valleys in the lee of my neighbour’s dormers.
Small avalanches stream from the eaves,

too fast an hourglass. This wind is an animal,
long teeth against my cheek.

What kind of lion
is so cold?

I stand precarious
at the end of a long journey.

How can it be, after all these miles
I don’t know where next to step?

Photo by Tungsten Rising on Unsplash.