he wakes up peacefully and always silent

no one to wake up to, except the sunrise

he sees the mountain and the trees which are wind bent

there is snow blanketing the ground,

and there is much work to do

the old man gets up, grabs his boots and grabs his coat

eats his breakfast, a meager meal of grits and toast

he picks up a pencil and writes the note

and there is much work to do

he goes outside and shovels all the snow

he gathers firewood and puts it beside the cottage

he grabs his cap, nothing else to show

and there is much work to do

he starts up his truck and drives to town

he remembered the note which has all his needs

he picks up groceries and medication without a sound

and there is much work to do

he gets back to the cottage and starts a fire in the fireplace

grabs a book and fixes himself some cold soup

he sits there calmly with a soup that has no soup

and there is much work to do

a few hours later, he goes back outside, locks and bolts the door

he follows the trail that leads deep into the woods

he may go farther, and perhaps a little bit more

and there is much work to do

the snow starts to fall and the ground crunches underneath him

the woods are always lovely in this type of evening

the old man heads back as the lights start to dim

and there is much work to do

he goes inside and the house is cold again

he starts another fire and fixes himself dinner

there is no love of a wife, and no love of a friend

and there is much work to do

then he goes to bed and dreams his quiet dreams

the snow still falls and clicks every now and then

the old man is at rest, and everything is as it seems

and there is nothing else to do