the stairwell is ripe: at the edges of steps, a startling scree addressed to me is heaped in sharp-edged stacks and at every slam it shifts and scatters clutters passage so that others shove it back pushing through the narrow path 'twixt and 'tween the white and metered avalanche that once was a landing I shake my head and skitter past uncompelled to claim the mass of claims that vie to catch my eye, and thus, my checkbook until at last the mounds of mail cascade onto the mat so none may pass unharrassed, unhindered through this nook I sigh, I stoop collect these dues my fruits of neglect and shudder at the massive task spread out before me I gather what is left inside and promise (again) that I will tend with diligence ...once spring arrives