I snatch a coat from hook on my way out.
The gusting winds are rattling the panes.
The sad line of tracks, when I wheel about,
suggests I’ve made little by way of gains.

The cabin keeps me ever near at hand.
I walk and walk and yet it won’t recede.
The slog is slow as if I’m in quicksand;
I lean to snap my chains, and so be freed.

But chains I cannot see, I cannot break.
My sisyphean lean does me no good.
And through the air there falls just one snowflake,
but there’d be more before I reach the Wood.

The cabin wants me back; I hear it call.
I buckle at the knees. So goes my fall.