The Old Snowshovel's Sigh (When Spring Arrives) Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

I scrape and push, I bend and strain,
Through winter's worst, again, again.
My metal teeth, they bite the ice,
To make a path, neat and nice.

My handle aches, my blade is worn,
I long for sleep, a place forlorn.
The shed's dark corner calls to me,
To dream of peace, eternally.

Or maybe hung upon the wall,
Where winter's grip can't reach at all.
A dusty rest, a silent sleep,
No more the drifts, so cold and deep.

But wait, a trick! That sunny gleam,
It's just a 'fake spring, ' it would seem.
Old Mother Nature, full of glee,
Maybe one more blizzard planned for me!

I've seen them come, I've seen them go,
Broken friends, in piles of snow.
I made it through, I did my best,
Now let me dream, a well-earned rest.

The rake, the hoe, the trowel bright,
They bask in sun, a pretty sight.
While I, in mud and pine, I stand,
Forgotten hero of the land.

T.M.Solvang