Behold the heights where the wind is clear
Sweeping all with crisp cold
Delight in the minus sixteen
Whirl with the snow drifts
Meters ahead icicles curl nearly to the ground
The sun judges the morning
Face feels frost bitten
Swinging the shovel
The result is only heard by a thud on the piles below
A daring soul could have peered over the edge
To watch the forms fall
Fearing the fall I back away
Leaving the scene.
No comments:
Post a Comment