(This isn't a rhyming poem, sorry to disappoint. It just was something that I needed to get down. It seem when I write I can take something I imagine and make it grow and fulfill it.)
He sits in his chair, at his screens, chittering away.
Every day.
The window sits adjacent to him.
It's not his window though.
He is stuck in the middle of the room.
He glances at it every so often though,
to remind him of the outside world
away from the chittering.
It snowed today.
Not the normal first snow of the year,
that bursts out of the gate eager to paint the world white,
only to end up retreating at first contact with the earth
that is still warm from months of summer sun.
No. This snow stays. It falls.
It beckons him to challenge it.
Why the challenge?
It's warm inside. It's nice.
Comfortable.
But something itches to take its challenge.
Not just for the spirit of competition,
but for an actual desire to test this weathers first go.
To see its strength.
To see his own.
So he ventures out.
Out the door the cars seem loud,
the plants seem sad their lives are over for the year,
the leaves are frozen in the gutters,
and people seem uncomfortable.
So does this man.
He sees the wind blowing past the corner of the building;
a small drift is forming by the edge of the brick wall.
There is where he will find the sharp edge of the snow's blade.
Of course he must.
It whips his face.
Not snow, but small frozen particles.
Wolves in sheeps white clothing.
His blood runs warm with ancestral memories.
The shores of Reykjavik.
The streets of Moskva.
The north is home to this heart,
and so this freezing wind brings him comfort.
Something he did not expect.
It makes him think maybe one of his kindred
stood on those far away lands
long before his time
and that same wind came and visited them.
There they stood, welcoming its annual challenge
with fire in their eyes,
white knuckles clenched,
hair and beard spotted with white
being pulled by the wind.
Perhaps a wolf was there
and felt that wind as well.
Its coat turned white already
as if to say to this winter,
"I knew you would come,
and I am stronger than you."
He sits in his chair, at his screens, chittering away.
Every day.
The window sits adjacent to him.
It's not his window though.
He is stuck in the middle of the room.
He glances at it every so often though,
to remind him of the outside world
away from the chittering.
It snowed today.
Not the normal first snow of the year,
that bursts out of the gate eager to paint the world white,
only to end up retreating at first contact with the earth
that is still warm from months of summer sun.
No. This snow stays. It falls.
It beckons him to challenge it.
Why the challenge?
It's warm inside. It's nice.
Comfortable.
But something itches to take its challenge.
Not just for the spirit of competition,
but for an actual desire to test this weathers first go.
To see its strength.
To see his own.
So he ventures out.
Out the door the cars seem loud,
the plants seem sad their lives are over for the year,
the leaves are frozen in the gutters,
and people seem uncomfortable.
So does this man.
He sees the wind blowing past the corner of the building;
a small drift is forming by the edge of the brick wall.
There is where he will find the sharp edge of the snow's blade.
Of course he must.
It whips his face.
Not snow, but small frozen particles.
Wolves in sheeps white clothing.
His blood runs warm with ancestral memories.
The shores of Reykjavik.
The streets of Moskva.
The north is home to this heart,
and so this freezing wind brings him comfort.
Something he did not expect.
It makes him think maybe one of his kindred
stood on those far away lands
long before his time
and that same wind came and visited them.
There they stood, welcoming its annual challenge
with fire in their eyes,
white knuckles clenched,
hair and beard spotted with white
being pulled by the wind.
Perhaps a wolf was there
and felt that wind as well.
Its coat turned white already
as if to say to this winter,
"I knew you would come,
and I am stronger than you."
