May I move your shovel from beside the door? Back when I was little, the street you’d clear stamping, damp layers shed, boots upon the floor; you haven’t touched it once this year.
Scrape scrape, oh how quickly you would move. My brothers too would press our noses against window glass to see what you’ve
cut through the snow, red hat and standing tall.
And now your hair gets more and more like snow; it’s melting off with every coming spring.
And grey, asphalt pebbles, where once was glow —do I need worry? Have you lost something?
Father, I moved your shovel from beside the door, now I brave the storm outside
and I need you, all the more.
Stephen Duncanson is a freshman at Southern Connecticut State University. He has been published once before in the Blue Marble Review as well as in Polyphony HS. In his free time he enjoys reading and weightlifting.