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The Cold

What a blanket of snow,
That covers the cold hard ground,
That rips the leaves off the trees,
And whose wind steals my barely warm breath,
And bites into my nose,
And seeps into my body until I have lost myself,

Just like the nature is lost in the blanket of white
That covers the ground,

I despise that hopeless feeling, that January, February, and March seep,
That takes away the spirit of love and senses,
In exchange for the numbness of pain and decay,

My feet leave treads in the ground
That are instantly eaten up,
As I walked down the empty road
I see the destruction laid out,

The ancient oak tree that has stood his ground since the beginning
Is now stripped of its identity,

Of its bark

Its leaves

Its color

Its beauty
Just as the cold has me of stripped mine.

I stare at the tree,
Its gnarled branches shiver and hunch against the bone breaking wind,
That numbs the core of anything living,
And leaves them breathless for heat,
My only condolence as I walk is that,
Spring should always return.




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