I wouldn’t write at
all if it weren’t for myriad writers before me whose works showed me what was
possible. The poems of this series are small offerings of respect, of thanks,
to those muses. – Brian Beatty
Jack Gilbert
That winter it didn’t snow
temps for a month still never rose
above zero Fahrenheit.
More than once I bundled into my coat
and boots in the middle of the night
to creep out to the garage for my shovel.
Every time the frozen ground refused
the grave I wanted to dig
for a certain friend I wanted to kill.
– Brian Beatty
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Brian's most recent collections of poetry are Dust and Stars: Miniatures and Brazil, Indiana. Don't miss Brian's columns on the great poets: insert your email address in the "Follow By Email" box to the right of this article and you'll be notified every time a new article appears.
I wrote this poem mid-January, before Minnesota broke state records for snowfall in the month of February. That said, my goal was to do for where I live what Jack Gilbert did for Greece in his masterful poetry. I mostly failed, but I enjoyed the effort.
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