The air becomes thicker each mile I go
and my feet trudge through the Winter’s snow.
Trees hold onto sap mid-drip,
holding on tight, resisting the drift.
Ice covers the ground but remains see-through
and shows the struggles others have been through.
Cold and afraid, I set up for the night
and I take myself out of sight.
Morning comes and so does the worry
that I wont make it without a hurry.
Caught in the middle of life and death:
I ride the line till’ there’s nothing left.
IN YOUR DREAMS POETRY 