A leg in the cold,
A leg in the warm,
My arms battle to fold.
I hear threats of harm
As I plod on a strange land.
My head is under the money charm
Rendering my heart sold
I yearn for a familiar arm
To ease this cold
But feelings of homely needs do my head smarm
Making me a bit bold
Age though sounds an alarm
Will I ever get enough gold
To fix the family farm
And escape the cold?
If only these diggers will stop their swarm
Like insects looking for food to store in wait of cold
I could finish up and get to be warm
In my own before I get old.
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014
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