As the wind snarls overhead,

The trees cry and rent,

Their stricken branches stretch into the sky,

As if for an ominous testament.

It is not the wind that howls,

But the trees that give it voice,

A saddened cry for all that once was,

And despair for a cycle leaving it no choice.

The walls of white are pressing inward,

But the chill comes also from within,

The soft realization,

That somehow the trees and I are akin.

A sapling with no terrace,

A soul with no guide,

Both travel a path with no signs,

And yet with rules that all must abide.

In this land of endless white,

We know not which way or where we go,

The only assurance left to us is this:

All footprints we leave will eventually vanish into the snow.