Passing Poem by Joseph Peter Ostapiuk

There's an entrance to the woods I should call my own,
for to no passer-by has it ever been shown
where leaves exceed and lean over the trail
as if a shadow had casted his form above my eyes
but under these white-december skies
where winters fall lays its cloak upon the ground
I find myself wandering through the dreamless snow
towards the flowers that still show last
I know my footfalls should bring me back
to where I was once before
but I'd never dream of going back
I'd much rather be lost in snow
and never find another soul
or where the lamp-lighted streets cross through pastured fields
where not a sullen eye wakes from the midnight drear.

As each hollow crystal falls through my hands
I sit myself against the wood and the unstable sheet of white beneath me
each moment melting into the next
like snowflakes upon my brow

Betwixt the trees somewhere far off from here
there's an endless field of blanketed white
who knows no word but silence
I find my clarity in the snow
where scarce travellers ever go