Destination
There is nothing here but snow.
For miles the white against the grey sky,
only an occasional spire of black bark--
spine of a bush,
no trees will grow.
I am making my way,
boots heavy with the distance,
my face a burning beacon against the wind.
Dark line of the horizon
just out of reach.
I know where I am going.
I've all the time in the world
to get there.
I've prepared.
See? I have only knives in my basket.
*
Poem completed 2/2014
3 comments:
Yours is the only poetry that I've ever enjoyed.
Aw...thank you. :)
I agree with crudedoodle. I don't get into poetry that much, most times I just don't get it (I'm just stupid that way).
But some of your stuff just grabs me, and sometimes I can relate.
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