1
I walk the frozen forest path
And gather round the sticks and logs,
To bring a warming fire home
And chase away the morning fog.
My mind patrols the silent scene
And draws the distant stillness near,
And fends away the misted rays,
To bait the dawn to reappear.
If only I could wander slowly
Through the pathways of my soul;
Gather dead and dying things
That weigh against fate’s gentle pull,
Then amble backward to a place
Where death and ice have set their claws,
And light a glow of burning wood,
And watch the smoke purge every flaw.
