I carry the metal bucket

heavy with ashes

through the wooded path

to the compost heap.

 

Tiny flakes of snow

fall on and around me

floating down from the gray sky

like extinguished cinders.

 

I dump out the ashes.

They billow up like a mushroom cloud.

 

Later, I close the chicken coop.

It’s dark, but the porch light

casts a glow on the ground

faintly dusted with white;

an eerie volcanic landscape.

 

It doesn’t snow much,

barely enough to coat the leaves.

 

After all, it’s almost spring.

Daffodils are poking out of the ground.