January 2020

The first full month of winter is upon us; and as we arm ourselves to do battle with the elements (ergonomic shovels, telescoping snow brushes, anyone?), may we keep in mind the instructive lines of this month’s Poem of the Month by Framingham poet Carla Schwartz.  

The Art of Shoveling

By Carla Schwartz

 When you wake to the thick white quiet, don’t despair.

When you know it will take hours and hours to remove

the two-foot, and still falling shroud, don’t shy from it.

Before visualizing the entire driveway clear,

and you sailing out in your car, open the garage door.

From the dry floor, scoop up one shovelful and fling it

where you will not drive or walk — fling it in the air.

When, after a half hour, only a small square of blacktop

has emerged, and you have so much more, start singing —

Yankee Doodle, maybe — You have earned that feather.

Before you start crying you have no one you can call to help,

take out an audio book — War and Peace, Catch 22.

Something that will do the shoveling for you.

When the plow truck driver tells you to get out of the way

and undoes your last hour’s work, don’t waste your shaking fists —

return the snow to the road when the truck is gone.

When your back starts to feel the strain of the shovel,

mount your snowshoes. Be a piston. Float and sink.

Make troughs alongside your shovel area —

Somewhere to throw the snow,

a trap to catch it when it blows.

“The Art of Shoveling” was originally published in the collection, Mother, One More Thing, Turning Point Books, 2014.

Carla Schwartz is a poet, filmmaker, photographer, and blogger. Her poems have appeared in Aurorean, Common Ground, Fulcrum, Gyroscope, Long Island Review, Lost River, Mom Egg Review, and Sunlight Press, among others.  She also is the author of two poetry collections: Mother, One More Thing (Turning Point Books, 2014) and Intimacy with the Wind (Finishing Line Press, 2017).