So off into the snow begins his day:
The old town’s still asleep, or mostly so —
Just melting ice and mud along the way,
And turns that catch the full winds as they blow
The make his progress more than slightly slow.
And it’s as though the village sits without
The changing ways that time is all about.
Ensconced in wool, a shovel in his hand —
A wooden handle, and a metal spade —
He starts to dig a path across the land,
And very sluggishly a way is made
Across flat ground, and up the valley grade.
But still, it’s though a hundred years ago
Came back, for all external things might show.
But what are we, but moments in a weave;
A woof of time, a warp of this and that,
And dash of hope and what we might believe,
To climb and to descend and span the flat
And dig our way through this, our habitat,
Inside a world where time is meaningless
To ponder what this all is