Snow claims walkways: restless crystals,
like they are at its mercy, but who really is,
which is the test of wind, or the speed of air.
Intimately involved, shovel and man? Most
of what you do is survive: Donner Party terms,
lachrymose stares. The hills tear up at
the mention of beauty, the only
glimmer of its truly gimcrack soul, now
hastily swirling: white twisters not believed.
Sometimes the boys slide into sad ditches,
pulled out by workmen, summoned in confusion,
but not before resolve has been unleashed,
(while egos are sated by wind chill factors)
and slick roads have been placed into perspective.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem