It's a weathering Sunday morning
trudging up the steep hill in the snow.
We go to church, snowfall, rain or shine.
Dad expects us to be there no matter
what is happening in the valley.
The first round of bells echo,
throughout the glen,
like a long-playing music box winding down.
My no grip boots,
like the blades on a sled.
I take a step; slide back six, fall,
get up and flipside again and again.
The last round of bells will toll soon

and, when I'm late, everyone will turn
as I clop down the aisle.
The cathedral is within eyesight,
mist is making the slope icy,
there's no way I can get a grip.
I fall to the ground, dig in my fingers,
inch my way up the knoll.
Puffing and wheezing,
I make it to the steps...
fall down and take off
like sniffing hound dogs chase a rabbit.
Pass Mrs. Shapiro's blue farmhouse
using my arms and body to balance my load.

I see a rickety hay wagon ahead,
mercy me, stoop down and beneath,
by gosh come out on the other side,
whoosh around Mr. Collin's barn,
going like a race car pass the schoolhouse,
arms flailing, body bobbles, in full velocity,
cheeks burn, eyes water, hands numb,
zip around our Old Massey,
pass the wood shed, over the enbankment,
and flip head first into a full hog trough,
grin and say, "Old, Lucifer, has his hold on me."