The trees of the forest shake,
their limbs fearing the next quake.
Their thick trunks glisten in white,
with tears frozen from their plight.
Surrounded on four sides by white,
the bright glare has blinded my sight.
A shadow emerges from the trees.
I hope it is not him, pretty please.
My body moves forward against my will.
I grab a tree trunk and try to hold still.
I dig my feet into the packed snow,
but I must go where the wind will blow.
Read a book by the fire.
The pages will shine brighter.
I don’t need to fight the snowdrifts.
I’ll stay inside with the misfits.
The ones who prefer books
that grab you with their hooks.
The fire is getting low
as the strong winds begin to blow.
I snuggle farther beneath the covers
as I read about murders and lovers.
The Dead walk the bitter cold.
Florida nights have lost their charm.
Wolf may be centuries old,
But he will never do me harm.
THE DEAD GAME