like statues in the distance,
Still wrapped in winter warms.
An almost placid like indifference,
In the way they weather storms.

Some clothes look almost brand new,
Those shades of red and gold.
They look like skiers sleeping,
All curled up in the cold.

The mountain takes a tally,
And it climbs just like they do.
The proof is in the valley,
Their bones still in their shoes.

Some are wrapped in homeland flags,
And others draped in homemade rags.
Some still clutching tanks and bags,
At the bottom of the icy crags.

The most cautionary winter tale,
Fixed and frozen faces pale,
Their wizened warnings never fail,
To sober those who brave the trail.

The coldest graveyard in the land,
No coffins baring family hands.
No pastors sharing final words,
No distant sounds of primal birds.

Still now, they sit in winters glow
Their silent words let people know,
That some who come, don't get to go,
And become the stillness in the snow.


© James Moynihan