In the winds of winter
the biting air reminds
that warm is the sun yet
the cold finds its time.

I hear the crisp paper;
fluid marks the surface
and sends us a journey,
an endeavor a purpose.

I shall not speak for you
some things in a head.
For without my secrets
all my mystery is dead.

I’ll retreat though up
into a canvas of trees.
Me you will not see,
as I bleed needlessly.

Prodded and slapped
by the wind on my face.
When warm my feelings
I seek on paper to trace.

Yet slumbering beneath
is a cold I learned to learn.
When I set my pen upon
a page I want it to burn.

The heat warms my talons
as all cold it fades it leaves.
Hear the echos they grow,
I call out amidst the trees.

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