The cool breeze seemed to pick itself up and then place itself back down again,
For in a room it is still,
It’s coldness stationary,
Frozen even.

Between the walls,
It’s power is as naught,
Instead it whispers quiet snowflakes at the doors,
And dances not on hard glossy floors.

Beneath the roof,
It simply confesses of its coldness,
But it is a subdued tickle,
Not a rampant upheaval.

What a thing a home is,
To relieve the battering breeze of its fury,
And hold it still in quiet peace,
To tell it what is safe to do and where to blow.