Compulsive

Another day without time
to write: patients call in crisis,
apple trees need stakes,
cord wood waits to be stacked,
and rows of pink-topped turnips
remain buried in half-frozen earth.

I rush from chore to chore,
the smell of snow in the air,
scolding myself, "Chop wood,
carry water!" but only feel anxious
as an intern with a pager
that will call code blue.

Overhead, swans fly south,
no doubt where they're headed.