• Chandler Smith

Cold

The sun's warmth left us

Fleeing to our dens,

Has Mother Earth's love left us?

Punished for our sins?


The wrath of whirling wind,

Whipping, Winding, and Wild,

The birds have ceased chirping,

For the doe has lost its child.


The season is upon us,

We knew it was quite near.

But should we fight against it,

Or remain frozen here in fear?


The owl sweeps the barren ground,

In search for one last meal,

For without something else before

His bad wing may not heal.


The time when closeness matters,

It seems all have broken apart,

But now it is the season,

When patience plays its part.

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