Cold in the Quarry

It is cold in the quarry,
a violent cold, harsh and painful on the lungs.
Too long in this weather, and you will slowly die.

You have come close.
Laying in the dark night full of stars,
unable to move, paralyzed

by your pain, by your fear,
by the winter voices that cut away your clothes
and left you to fight the cold naked.

You have come close.
Felt the warmth slowly leave your flesh
not eager to die, but willing,

There is a beautiful peace in the stillness, and
in that moment you have to decide,
you must decide, or let your soul fly.

And so, you move. Your bones ache;
your body protests. Surrender is simpler.
It is less work. There is less pain involved.

And now you are here again. In the cold.
But today your core is warm, and you are certain
there is a place below that waits for you,

full of warmth, and eager
to hear your tales of survival and joy,
of battles won, lost and won again.

About this poem.

Lately, I have been reminded of my darkest times. I do not flee from those memories, but neither do I spend much time on them. When they arrive, I see them as reminders of the journey of the last decade and a half. And rejoice. Every turn in the road, the endpoint could have been very different.

The picture was taken at the quarry across from my house.

Tom