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.