The sky has slammed its iron gate,
Snow stacking high and sealing fate.
The driveway's lost, the street erased—
The world outside, unreachably laced.
The wind won't quit its howling rant,
It rattles walls with icy chant.
I pace from window, room to room,
A captive in a cotton tomb.
My plans lie buried under drifts,
My patience thinning in small shifts.
The clock ticks loud, the hours crawl,
White silence pressing on it all.
I long for engines, roads, and light,
For somewhere else beyond this white.
But here I sit, storm-bound, alone—
Resenting snow. Resenting home.