in an alpine valley, high,
we built a cozy place
a cradle from the storms that rage,
the winds that shriek and race
to seek some way into our rooms
while we try to shield our space.
and sometimes on the holidays
we want to visit Mom
we climb into our snow chained truck
and pray for weather calm
for while she’s close as arrows fly,
the road is rather long.
we climb and climb for miles and miles
up to high Berry Pass,
where the clouds are gathered thick
a windy, snow filled mass,
and frost leaves witchy handprints
to mark our windshield glass.
and so we roll the window down
(which brings the wind inside)
and find the yellow painted lines
our close and steady guide
and driving slow (but never stopped)
we find the other side.
then when old Berry’s to the rear,
we marvel at our luck,
although we very nearly died,
our ride was never stuck—
but don’t tell Mama what we did,
her heart’s been acting up.
(Ren)
Subject or Theme: Wintry Mountains
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