From where they sit, there is nothing
to focus their thoughts on except
the shrouded hand of death.
They see their travels coming to a close and,
filled with fear, they obsess on the
road ahead. Yet some cannot even remember the rain,
how it smells or how it feels, and
would trade places for one more memory of tomorrow.
© Susan Schoeffield
The 6/24/14 post on Poetic Asides presented a challenge to write a poem in an interesting, and unfamiliar, poetry form called the Golden Shovel. Take a line from a favorite poem; each line of your poem should end with a word from the original line (using them in the order they appear).