The world has been buried for weeks.
Bitter cold and dry as old bones.
No ice has formed here,
just a heavy powder
with a deceiving layer of crunch on top-
stand on it for a second, then plunge right through.
Heavy piles from the plow line the driveway. Drifts up to four feet push against the trees.

You are on your way.
So I shovel the steps.
Then the wild wind blows.
I shovel again.
I wait for you
between shoveling and sips of spiced tea.
I watch the snow forming circles,
just as leaves do, during the fall.
Swirling cyclones of diamond dust,
sailing southward across the frozen lake.

As the wind howls outside the house,
and whistles and wails through the drafty window frames,
I text you a warning,
wrapped around a preemptive apology.
To tread lightly when you get here.
To move mindfully as you approach the stairs.
To hold tightly onto the rails,
and to take your time.

‘Please be very careful when you get here.
I wouldn’t want you to slip.’