Buck George.

Truth In the Snow

The snow is falling to the ground.
No one else is around, only me.
(The truth is hiding in the falling snow.)
The trees are tired and I hear them groan,
Crying out for relief.
No help comes and still they groan.
Then a snap—a crack—
A branch falls to the ground,
Taken under by the weight and pressure.
But on and on the snow still pounds,
And pounds, and pounds,
Until the branch is covered.
A white carpet consumes the ground.
I step out and discover that the snow
Is crushed under my weight.
Then I ask myself and wonder:
What will it be that crushes me?


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Email: buck@buckgeorge.com