This can’t be snow, not
this pristine talcum puffing lightly from my shovel.
Except where the car has already rolled:

There I find flat milk glass etched with tread pattern.
The brittle glass explodes into wicked-looking shards
Before the sliding shovel,

Exposing dry cold concrete.

Off to the south
As I stop to catch my breath
A pure white blanket glitters with thousands of sparkles
scattered extravagantly across everything.

Thank goodness
human habitation is on either side,
Warm and dry under cold blue sky.
Beauty can be dangerous.

— Gus McClelland lives in Lawrence.