In Snow Poem by Ed Skoog

Each morning, I checked the radiator
to see what it had been singing
all night into the drip basin,
then pulled on my child-wardrobe
of corduroy, flannel, and moon boot,

and walked gently in the cold
to bring wild birds breakfast
before mine. Each morning,
I had to clear the snow away,
whether new-fallen or drift,

all the way down to dead
leaves and grass. Out of a blue
coffee can, cold through gloves,
I proured thistle, millet, cracked
corn and splintered sunflower.

Each morning, the Latter-Day saints
living across the street would file
to their station wagon as I poured.
I only had the dusting away of white,
that setting-out seed for no harvest.