To Build A Fire

The cold bites deep, a fire the only cure, But numbed hands fumble, sticks slip from their hold. He should have heeded the old-timer's words, Respect the Yukon's grip, its icy breath. The dog, it knows, seeks warmth in buried snow, While he, pride blinding him, fights bitter fate. Each match a fleeting spark against the dark, A tiny sun that flickers and then dies. His limbs grow heavy, thoughts begin to blur, The fire's image dances in his mind, A haven lost, a warmth he'll never know. The snow falls softly, a white shroud descends, As life's last embers fade into the night.