The Yukon
By: Alex Spies
The obstreperous cries of creaking pine,
As howling wind’s piercing teeth were biting,
Left the prospector’s frigid trek indignant
Of desolate boreal plains darkening.
Yet the thought of Love’s tender warmth abying
The sultry touch of a woman’s soft hand.
Only heard by snow stooped pines, harkening
For the sweet murmurs of a pleasant land,
Of scorching sun and dunes of golden sand,
Where the cold hardened souls of the Yukon
Aren't bound to the gilded veins of stone, and
Benumbed fingers don't sift for gold long gone.
The soft snow called him back to that cold place.
The voice of his love, giving warm embrace
As howling wind’s piercing teeth were biting,
Left the prospector’s frigid trek indignant
Of desolate boreal plains darkening.
Yet the thought of Love’s tender warmth abying
The sultry touch of a woman’s soft hand.
Only heard by snow stooped pines, harkening
For the sweet murmurs of a pleasant land,
Of scorching sun and dunes of golden sand,
Where the cold hardened souls of the Yukon
Aren't bound to the gilded veins of stone, and
Benumbed fingers don't sift for gold long gone.
The soft snow called him back to that cold place.
The voice of his love, giving warm embrace
Writer's Statement: My goal for this Spencerian sonnet was to convey the starkly cold climate of the Yukon Peninsula through imagery and contrast, as well as to bring forward the individual perspective of the suffering experienced by gold prospectors.