The cold is hungry out,
So starved on empty skies,
And as the clarity of bitten glass,
We see the open realms of blue.
Now here we are my friend,
To gaze upon the spires,
To sip and talk our fill of all the world,
To find our fitting place while here.

I come home to you, my sweet spires,
Dusted with the autumn rains,
Yours are rosy cheeks in painted figures,
Life in so many walks through mottled streets.

In the quiet walks come eve,
Woods are painted yellow-red,
The leaves are piled and glistened wet,
Assembled to chaotic tiles,
To build tomorrow's soil and life,
For shoots to rise up from their place.

Puddles at my feet,
Umbrella down dripping,
Clouds shattered in puddles,
Scattered by the falling splashes,
Like tiny celebrations,
Inch high explosions, vivid,
Heralding the days end.

I am bitten by the cold today,
In pieces by the frosted fields,
Yet I'm carried on great shards of ice,
That bend halfway, and thud the ground,
I hide my chin, my hands within
A plastic sheet with zips and pleats.

Great chunks of air,
Are spiraled near,
They bash the trees,
They strike my ears
And face between,

I hear them fierce,
I watch them run,
They through woods pierce,
And nature's heart
Is struck but firm.

The frost is as starlight,
Sun scattered to galaxies through the dew,
I watch these frigid mornings bloom,
Like a candle snuffed at daybreak,
The frost is gone, the warmth deep set beneath,
The frost is as whispers.

Walking in the harsher rain,
Surrounded by my blood tied squad,
Five mouths agape at the unfolded cliffs,
Such beautiful stone and glimmering ocean,
Left me dazed in the harsher rain,
We smile at the downpour,
Failing to ruin a walk it watered it.