Brittle banks of ice
Against my taunting toe,
Cracking and seething
To be so uproariously
   trampled.

Against the yellow
Of the setting sun
Through a smog that
Lays thick across the
   horizon

Jets of black trees
Shoot dark into the sky,
Mimicking the wind
In their jostled, whipped
   frenzy.

The wind that churns
The bowing branches
Bites the lobes of
My ears, uncovered and
   dangling.

Frost is clinging to
My mouth and nose
Without suffocating me.
I must be immortal
   somehow

To brave these evenings
By my swelling river,
Sitting on a freezing rock,
And reviewing in my
   memory

All the times I was
Ready to bring you here.
All the frozen nights instead
We kept warm inside your
   home.

How pure and raw
The power of hope.
I hoped you would see this;
I hope there's something
   like it

In heaven, and God takes you
To sit on the shore, Himself.
And I hope you hear the birds.
I hope they sing as sweetly for
   you.

Climbing up the steep bank
Cemented in fangs of mud
I ply my fingers in my pocket
Around the simple band of
   gold.

If only truth resounds
In a life after this.
If only He will not forget
To honor His sacred
   Word.

Heavens light is blowing out
Again this very night.
Slowly God will notice
And tomorrow He will relight
   the wick.

Until then, darkness.
A life lived in shadows.
A life of bitter winters
And stabbing pangs of
   hope.