Born In a Shack
The roadway's blocked with drifts of snow,
by winter winds that howl and blow.
And ominous clouds clot the sky,
beneath a sallow sun's faint glow.
House calls get performed on the fly,
even though I'm no longer spry.
But a country doctor's no good,
unless he is willing to try.
Experience; says that I could,
but first, I'll gather more firewood.
For nights gets cold when it turns black,
and some have frozen where they've stood.
My tired feet plow a winding track
through frozen fields on my way back.
And yet, I'm prouder than they know
of that baby born in a shack.
(Interlocking Rubáiyát)
3/12/2015
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