Breaking up weeks-old ice on the driveway,
I could be writing a poem.
I take a hoe, not designed for how I’ll use it,
and work against the freeze,
deeper than it appears, hard as rock,
the cold cuffing my wrists and ankles.
The next day, though, when it’s warm,
the sun dries off the melt,
the broken pieces glistening in piles,
like a hot rewarding meal,
clarity, solid and granular ground
on which to stand
or stare at through the window,
wondering how it was ever
any other way than this.