BEARING UP
Arising, I open the blinds
And am blinded by oceans of white
Shrouding each tree trunk and limb,
Walkway, driveway and lawn,
Ruthlessly wet and stickily
Clinging to cars and roofs.
Hunch-shouldered firs and spruce
Bow to the merciless weight.
“Too much,” I think. “There can be
Too much of any good thing.”
But here in New England we
Have learned to survive like the trees:
Hunker down, put up with and wait
For the sun to revive us again.
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