Trudging on tirelessly,
Through blizzard and hail,
The cold north wind,
Squeezing the breath out,
And life from the soul,
Lips; tight and rough,
Feet; numb and wet,
Back: Cries and whimpers,
Screaming, 'No more!'
Fingers; stiff,
Face; red and cracking,
Spirit; weak and on knees.
Twelve hours in the snow,
Day has now become night,
Not a soul in sight,
Thick crumbs of snow,
Spatter across cold wet squinting face.
Shovel moves snow,
Snow makes brick,
Brick makes shelter.
A shelter to house pride and joy,
A shelter to relive dreams,
The dreams of a little boy,
A shelter that nearly broke one man,
But for that little boy; he did not care,
No matter how hard it got,
He soldiered on all the while,
Happy to die right there in the snow,
For just one memory of that little boy's smile.
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