Neil Johnson

Chore in the Yard

I search the yard. I clean up the remnants left by our basset hound. The first light snow flakes fall from the sky; softly diffused light swims through the clouds. I feel cold pricks upon my neck as I walk to the far end of our yard. I squint in the dim light, my back aching. I pause. Around me, the snow meets the ground; so distinct, so gentle. Memories of my own childhood appear: the snowball fights, the sledding, the hot cocoa after a long day. Childhood gone, I now toil for knowledge that is obsolete tomorrow; a mere fleeting success. But, here, that no longer exists; only this chill solace.

On frozen ground
scattered children's toys
music of winter