The Wanderer

A hush calms the snowy winter morning

Bringing a chill to a village settled.

He hears the crunch of the older iced path.

He sees the track behind and knows his strength.

The wanderer moves—valley to mountain—

To forget pictures in his thinking eyes.

One thing keeps him pressing, stretching forward:

Hauntings from the villiage, the town, the girl.

But when the crunching and moving subside,

And all that’s left is the snow and the dark,

Silence is no longer his defender;

Quiet is what’s eating him up inside.

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