Hauling in logs before first sleet snowfall,
wrapping tarp about the pyramid pile,
huffing and puffing like a berserker,
ferreting out a splinter from finger,
waiting for the first flakes of brute winter
with a shot-glass of gleaming malt whiskey,
one may ponder loss, gain, futility
as glass grows empty as philosophy.
Life seems like a preposterous pageant
of wind-blown snowflakes scattering blind cant—
without much effect—in weather frozen,
indifferent, melancholy, wooden.
Yet a glimmer in mirthful memory
boasts an old, happy, larking legacy!