The ground outside my door.
I itch to walk through that soft field,
To wrap it round me like a blanket,
The sting of cold air in my lungs
As I mark my path through the snow.
The early morning's best for such a hike,
No one else's footprints to distract me.
I walk in silence through the drifts
And flatter myself to think my path
Is one less traveled, and original;
But I'm not so clever or inventive.
I may like to think I am the first
But many trod the path that I have taken.
Snow and time hide their paths equally.
But I choose my path, and that's enough.
