The Quinzhee
(In the Style of Robert Frost)
The morning broke in heaps of white,
A world remade in silent light.
And three young hearts, in sudden cheer,
Knew winter’s call was drawing near.
Hobart rose, his breath a mist,
And pulled his woolens from the chest.
With steady hands, he laced his shoes,
And stepped outside, where frostlight bloomed.
The path was set, the race began,
With bounding stride and mittened hands.
Dean, upon his polished skis,
Glided swift through laden trees.
While Hobart, fleet as winter’s wind,
Ran laughing, breathless, chasing him.
The farmhouse waited, warm and bright,
A beacon in the morning light.
There, biscuits fresh and cocoa steamed,
And plans were made as voices gleamed.
Out to the barn, with sleigh in tow,
Through snowdrifts deep and ice below.
They piled it high and tamped it down,
A shelter rising from the ground.
Ben carved the door with steady knife,
A whispered thanks—his father’s life.
Inside they lay, in candle’s glow,
As whispering pines swayed soft and low.
The cold outside, a silent foe,
Yet safe they slept beneath the snow.
And when the moon rose high and bright,
It kissed their walls of frozen white.
A fleeting home, both strong and small,
A child’s dream—the wild’s call.
LAURENCE, THIS IS MY EXTREME TRIBUTE TO your overwhelmingly moving ODE to our past, present and futures!
Genius, just Genius!!
I’ll post my poetic tribute to your blog post; “RUNNING DOWN VIMY”
“The Quinzhee”
Running Down Vimy 