I count my digits:
two arms, two legs, one head.
Winter doesn’t forgive passivity.
My cheek took November’s swat
and turned to bloodrush.
Fingers and scarves
are signs of living;
gutter catalogs
are yardsticks.
At night
the shovels heave
and the salt scatters.
I can’t bear winter
without taking things back.
Doing things again.
November disinterested,
what to do in its
brash of white?
Mittens, cap,
boots. Again.
© — Michael Gravel
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