It’s early December as I rake the last
of fall’s leaves. Red, purple, yellow—
intoxicating after first frost, 
now dull, dreary, and dirty. Piled
in the bed of my truck, we drive
to the dump, racing the season’s
first snowfall.
 
Time to pull down the snow shovel.
Studies have shown men over sixty-five
ought to avoid shoveling snow. I visit
the gym three days each week only
to stay in Olympic shoveling shape.
 
So far so good, lots of snow falls
in Colorado, and here I am in my
seventies, shovel in hand. With
Parkinson’s, snow is not all that falls.
Red, purple, yellow—painful bruises.
 
Some days are easy, four inches
of feather-light powder brushed off
with a push broom. Other days,
the drifts are so tall, even the snow-
blower surrenders all hope.
Then my trusty shovel steps up.
 
A while ago, a friend of mine died
at his office desk working on a corporate
budget in the early morning hours.
I can think of nothing worse.
 
Well, dying on the driveway shoveling
snow, that may be worse.