Editing Poetry Poem by Dianne Feaver

Each winter begins the same way,
a pristine fall of crystalline snow
lays down on the breast of woods,
the birch by the steps, the path to the lake.
And when its beauty is at its peak,
still untouched by footprint or windfall,
laying silent and serene
and -most importantly - perfect,
I carry my shovel to the top of the hill
and methodically break its back.

Not until it cries for mercy
and lies before me, its purity
crusted, veined and scarred
in begging piles, not one dig more,
do I dare to stop and pride myself
in a job well done. There - I say-
I am ready for the next snow to come
blowing by my door, falling beautiful
completely perfect, completely oblivious.