The woes are beset

I paddle, I stretch, I rudder, I sweat,
As the raging torrents batter and tear.
My paddle, no more, than a twig for an oar,
All around me my woes are beset.

Plodding on

Grimacing against the splattering rain

No matter how hard you plod on,

It feels there's nothing left to gain

All soaked, cold, and downtrodden.

Onward, into wind, which slaps the face,

Chastening with bluster.

Stronger it seems, with each step and pace,

When strength is hard to muster.

But muster it does, and muster it will,

And masters all had to muster a skill.

Amidst the strain, it's foreboding and bleary,

But the end is in sight, and get there you will.

The winter road

Astride the weary, winter road
Forlorn with wind and rain,
Weathered from the thawing cold
And cracked in fissured veins.
The breeze blasts the blighted boughs
No littered leaves, long fallen.
The twisted trunk makes sighs and vows
To never yield, though swollen.
The rugged roots like robust troops
Spread far beneath the soil.
Sailing in a soggy soup,
The earthworms surface, the snails recoil.