From both below the ice, and atop it - I toil between,
To pierce a hole through the top, or punch one below?
Surely - to emerge and not lose hope,
And then - for the business of passing on through.

The ice above me, gives way, and shatters!
I am soaked in sweat, like a fieldhand on a plow.
I’ll come back to you like the ships in those songs,
I remember them all, even my past poetry.

I am short, half a century - forty years plus more,
I’m still alive because of you, and with The Lord’s intervention.
I’ve got something to sing, when brought before The Almighty,
I’ve got things to account for before Him.