Between my finger in my thumb,

the pen rests, snug as a bum,

Under my window, a clean grating sound,

when the shovel sinks into icy snow,

My father, shoveling, as I look down,

Till his straining back among the driveways,

Bends low, and rises yards away,

Crooked back, and sidewalks bare,

where he was shoveling,

The spiked boots and steel shovel,

gloved hands, on the wooden handle,

he drove through frozen mounds, steel edge gleaming,

to scatter miniature glaziers all around,

sweat filled hat, and snow covered jacket,

By God, the old man could handle a shovel,

just like his old man,

My grandfather piled heaps so high,

you could only see the shovel swinging,

I carried to him once, chocolate hot from the kitchen,

my hands protecting from spilling liquid out,

He stood up to drink it, and then back at it,

shoveling away, piling ice on ice and snow on snow,

through the frost, the shoveling,

The cold smell of rock salt, the crunch and smash,

chunked ice and packed slush, down to the pavement,

I watched from my window sill,

but I've no shovel to follow them,

Under my hands,

the keyboard rests,

I'll shovel with it.