Snowflakes race in spiral lines
to gather on the laden pines
that humbly bow beneath the strain
of heavy snow and frozen rain.
Now and then a branch will break
beneath the uninvited weight
and is buried in a grave of snow
no one but I will ever know.
Though the path to Ison’s place
has for the moment been erased
I think that I shall always know
the way that is the best to go
with memories from so long ago.
There she lays, ole Ison’s pond
the one we used to gather on
where I’d bust my butt and bruise my head
and push and pull that wooden sled
that papa let us help him make
that time it snowed on Christmas day.
Faintly now I think I hear
the sound of children’s laughter near
and I become a child again
playing here with all my friends.
Over the hill comes a bundled bunch
I’m not real sure but I have a hunch
that’s old man Ison’s great grandkids
came home for Christmas like I did.
They came to play; I came to sleep
for now the snow is far too deep
and thoughts are heavy on me now
that make my wearied head to bow.
For soon I know they’ll carry me
with all my friends and family
down the isle and through the gate
to my plot at Aldersgate.
They’ll bid me bye; They’ll bid me well;
of after-life though; who can tell?
In the end I bend for fear I’ll be
A stone in the mist of stones
A name in a field of names
and who will ever know, but me?