It was a cold winters day,
The mist rolled in, and fog ran away,
And I saw Oak branches sway,
And longed for the beauty of May.
I sat reclined on a log,
Thinking nothing of life’s tenuous slog,
Believing nothing would change as I looked across the bog.
Then a bolt of lightning struck,
I hid, hoping I had not run out of luck,
Then I fell headfirst into the muck.
Despite the cool mud easing the sting of the fall,
And having no injury other than my pride (and maybe my hide) I could recall,
I rose from the muck through it all.
