John Vanderslice
White Wilderness
The sky was growing paleSo we held on to the twisted trialThe ground was getting coldIt was too far out to turn aroundAnd go homeThe moon rose dim aboveIt was impossible to tell what time it wasthe snow fell lightly at firstIt dusted the pathIt frosted your hairThe snow fell I stumbled you laughedWe hoped and we hoped the snow wouldn't lastThe light was sure to fail And our hold on that twisted trailBut we we were unpreparedOur path had slowly disappeared
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