I hear it coming, from the night before,
Its frosty might, the chilly sting,
The icy arrows it drops to bring.
Cower to shelter for the storm is here.
A thump or two, a squeak from there.
It scowls at the battery like canon slam,
Unraveled, yet it stood.
Stronger than wood, the roof unbending.
It cries and wails,
For every branch it bent and swayed,
Its occupants hanging tight, be not the soil they rest right,
The green leaves clutched, hope the tree never falls.
To do only what they’re told the soft ones do so.
Chilled and almost torn, see not if they’re worn.
I am at my master’s will, what can I do but follow true!??
Dancing like ballerina without the sound, the curtains fall & rise.
And there’s that man looking up the sky,
He looks & barely keeps his self from his eye.
Freezing from the wind swelling with force, unnerved & sitting still,
Wondering how, blankly ask, thinking why!??
The tear stains from the drops of the night,
The dampness of the air, the sting of cold kisses.
The man he who sits with a face at writing,
What could he be thinking in this day, a storm approaching.
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