It has been snowing lately, for those who haven’t noticed, and I’d rather write poetry about it than bother shoveling it.
The telephone pole in the heaped night snow
with its spreading arms long-stripped of the lines
that bound it once to others of its kind
is alone now in a glow of headlamps,
and the frost has enlaced the windshield edge,
obscured the loose topography of snow,
all but the pole, long-stripped, lamp-lit, frost-edged.