work to be done

you feel
the warm pulse
of skin
on your gloveless
hands
burning
under the weight
and tug
of shovel
and rake.
the blisters
are rising.
but you still
plow away,
the sun not
yet down,
the moon
not up.
there is work
to be done.
blisters, or
no blisters.
you go on.
it's your way.