Snow falls diagonally
in a hypotenuse wind,
a tempest of downy white,
flakes as big as popcorn.

My son and I shovel in vain,
the snow rising, rising
past and into our boots -
icy and wet on my shin.

We're doing the shovel dance -
"one foot forward, two feet back,"
while shovels and snow madly fly.
Two little fish in a sea of snow.

I see my son laughing.
We laugh and laugh, the belly kind,
until I fall on a cushiony drift and
he throws snowballs at me.

One year the banks were seven feet high
on both sides of the drive way.
This is why I celebrate with champagne
when in Spring the first tulip breaks

through Minnesota snow.