Wednesday, March 6, 2013

the last winter poem

late night
low snow plough rumbles
back-up beeping
blue lights flashing
metal blade scraping - shooting sparks

the tired monk
now awake
picks up his shovel
joins in

4 comments:

  1. I imagine a sigh, then a scoop.

    Awesomely done, per usual.

    ReplyDelete
  2. the last? you think?

    Ollie, meet March.
    March, meet Ollie:)

    xo
    erin

    ReplyDelete

Thanks for helping with the development of Olsonomics.