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We once shoveled snow from sidewalks
in October, waxed our skis,
slid on trails through white woods
in November. We once closed stores
before Christmas eve to watch flakes tour en l'air
to our feet. We expected ice—daggered
from eaves, crystalled on eyelashes,
fractalled on windshields—each new year.
Whether we grumbled at Sven the meteorologist
and planned Mexican beach trips,
or dressed in snowsuits and jumped
into drifts, whether we swore
as we swept and scraped windshields or drilled
into lakes, dropped lines, and waited, winter
breathed over us, made us struggle
to stand, made us stronger each time
we helped someone’s tires out of the drifts.