Snow

It won't stop snowing. At least once a week, a storm erupts, dumping more and more of the white stuff on the streets, the cars, the small strips of land between house and sidewalk in this neighborhood. And we're running out of places to put it. Streets are plowed, sidewalks are shoveled, and the piles of snow on every available space that isn't street or sidewalk grow taller and taller.

And then work. Each day brings some new challenge, some new development-- but none of the previous storms have yet melted. I nod, and add the next new thing to the pile. I shovel out a space, only to turn and find it's been plowed in by someone else. What happens when we all run out of room?

I have a new mantra: "I want to live a life of quiet contemplation." Or maybe not so new, just newly articulated. Perhaps if repeated oft enough, it will be attained.

In Memorium