Again.
Almost too much of a good thing. Shovel the driveway, scrape the car.
Shovel, scrape. Shovel, scrape.
To break up the monotony I scrape, then shovel.
Nice try, but it doesn't help.
The Elixir is brewing. I wait by the window, looking out at the late afternoon yard.
Feather-down snowflakes are filling the air.
Again.
The brewer coughs and spits its last. The silence calls me over. I'm soon back on station with a cup of Elixir.
All of us, me/the cup/and Elixir, watch the snow change to dots that glitter in the fading light.
The garden is hidden, the only thing giving away its position is the top-half of the netting fence still standing guard on the perimeter.
The very tops of blueberry bushes and raspberry canes poke feebly out of the white landscape.
That's all there is to hint that there was once a productive plot of ground.
Green. Growing. Tended.
Weeded (sometimes).
Now its a white area inside a half-hidden fence that guards a few little sticks.
The second cup of Elixir offers a thought.
Huh.
The garden.
It's just like old people.
White snow covers the garden.
White hair covers the old.
It seems that the white eventually covers all.
Another swig of Elixir and the idea blossoms.
The snow hides what was.
The years do the same.
A lot of living hides underneath under the white.
Behind those frail wrinkles.
Inside those fragile bodies.
What we see now is not all that they were.
Not all that they are.
I read somewhere a person's eyes are a window to the soul.
So go ahead.
Look inside.
Be a peeping Tom or Tammy.
Sit down and take a good look.
And a long listen.
Share some Elixir or tea.
Spend some time.
There are incredible, amazing things lying beneath the white.