cold winter days
and dark hail filled nights
slowly brittle the once temperate heart
leading its owner to a numbing, trying plight
a leak on Sun
a single drop of heat
dances ‘cross the sky like a lively spark
restoring hope that rage and anger and elation and life,
will always someday meet,
unrolling the soul’s map to a wakened, breathing heart anew.
until that day, the time we seek,
when survival and spirit again must meet
all shall huddle inside our dark pressing shells,
taking form of sweet or earthy, nutty smells.
cinnamon will fill our lungs and squash soup pound through our, twig-like veins,
‘till the awakening of spring,
Where all feel joy, rage, the thawing April rain.