The cold’s seeping in,
and like a strange chilling hand,
grabs at your insides.
The shadows like cold,
it makes them hard and life less,
places to avoid.
The old wood cutter,
said the trees could talk, he did,
and then he’d listen.
The wind through the trees,
blows without stopping or they’re,
caught in outreached twigs.
The ground caught the cold,
and holds it fast and locked in,
dead, but it will rise.
