I’m tired of shoveling snow.
My back, having lived seventy-seven years,
aches
like weather of its own.

Each time wet snow
falls three inches or so,
I have no choice
but to clear the road.
For a week afterward,
my arms and legs complain,
and my back
still aches,
without even a chance to recover.

Then the snow melts.
All of it—melts and evaporates,
disappearing without a trace.
That’s when I think:
Is this all? How empty it feels.
Did I suffer this much
for something that amounted to nothing?
If I had only endured
a day or two,
it would have vanished on its own.

But
those who have been left,
as if nothing were happening, know:
a day without labor
is how boredom settles in,
how happiness evaporates.

Even without reward,
even when no trace remains,
the fact that I lifted, pushed, endured—
that I answered
when my body called me to move—
how quietly joyful that is.

The dirt road,
hidden beneath the white world,
has returned again.

It’s all right now.
The road is no longer inconvenient.
Rather,
it feels clean,
and comforting,
as if made just for me.

—TaeHun Yoon, February 1, 2026