There’s ice above me. There’s ice below.
Should I drill upward? Should I bust the floor?
Up, up, of course! I hope, therefore I float,
Expecting foreign visas at my door.

I must break out, escape this icy chamber.
I’m sweating like a farmer at the plow.
I will return just like those ships, remember?
And bring you all my poems with a bow.

I’m less than fifty, but the time is short.
By you and God protected, life and limb.
I have a song or two to sing before the Lord.
I have a way to make my peace with him.