A Blizzard Through The Night.

In sorry form, I walk the bleakest white

With little clue of when I'll rest my head.

With no idea of what will be my bed,

It stresses me to traipse alone at night.

The snow, it gathers, gaining height

To reach the bleak and starless sky.

Great clouds of grey arrived in day

And each seek to smother my sight.

The bitter wind invites my skin and bone

To remember its silky summer breeze.

It wishes to expose them to the cold.

I slow my pace, and close my eyes to breathe.

The piling snow envelops both my calves and seeks to pull me down.

The roaring whispers of the wind, alluring, tell me: 'Stay a while.'

The scarf I wrapped from chin to forehead wishes to release my face

My aching bones and chattering teeth long deeply for frost's embrace.

My fingers lay deep in my parka's warmth.

I've always known it was cold this far North.

No trees provide respite, branches stripped bare.

I've lost any clue how the trip will fare.

Despite the fur cover, my hands will freeze.

Travelers, beware facts like these:

'No man shall live where the wind has blown.'

Carved in our stories, through carcasses shown.

For just a moment, the snow loses strength.

There is no god of which I'd send my thanks.

For if they wanted to earn my praise,

They'd not send death like this to end my days.

I'd continue to curse my lot and swear,

But as I glance throughout the frozen air

I see the beauty earned through pristine white,

And up above, a passing star gives light.

There's beauty in the silence of a storm.

It gives remembrance to the lost, forlorn,

Decrepit souls who wander through its midst,

Who perished to seek wonders such as this.

How many have let this be their last view?

However many, they must be a jolly crew.

I'd say I wish to meet the same as them

If it wasn't such a solemn oath to send.

The sprinkling white relaxing on branches

Lets the brown that peeks from beneath shine through.

Icicles hang, as though Winter's leaves,

Reminders of the morning's dew.

If not for my desperation,

On nights like these, I'd light my pipe,

Sit my rocking chair on my porch,

And listen to the snowflakes swipe

Against my roof and windows,

A message scrawled through the ice:

'Set yourself inside, widow.

Unlike your fire, cold's not nice.'

I lean against a tree,

Simply to gain some rest.

I feel my wooden pipe

Snuggled against my chest.

I trudge through the snow

Losing my balance

I tumble and fall

Looking up at clouds.

I long to rest.

I can rest here.

The journey waits

For me, of course.

The snow starts

Once again.

Close my eyes

Vision ends

The cold

Is strong

The night

Too long

I

Wish

To

Rest