The Trip

Flying oh so high,
Looking down below,
All that I can see,
Fields of endless snow.

Looking all around me,
No one that I know,
Except for one but he,
Not even on my row.

So much time ahead,
Much not understood,
All but one I've read,
This one's more than good.

The fields have turned to hills,
And mountains in the air,
Distantly they grow,
A peek within the clear.

Diving through the snow,
In my rocking chair,
Below the heavens we go,
We are almost near.

R.S. 01/04