On the high hills, six white horses eat gray sky.
Snow has fallen, soft as flannel on the stoney road.
A wrong turn has taken me to this lost place.
In my jacket pocket, coins left through seasons
waiting for some felt future, some frivolous dream.
At what cost does one let coins fall, let losing come?

The road dead-ends in dense forest, deep as my life.
No one in the cabin there, no one in the woodshed, cold night fast.
Soup cans in the cupboard, a capable fire in the iron stove.
All alone here. I will be answering your letter for a long time.