The cold blanket appears from nowhere
soft down with such piercing touches
The knuckles of the forest press my back
some attempt at comfort
but only discomfort
My hands press back,
a thank for such attempts
but it still falls to cover me
to take away the feeling and replace it with itself.
Melted rivulets of chill trace down to the earth,
till soon relented warmth gives in
losing trace across pale skin
disappearing beneath the consumption.


-----------------------------

Written in a time when things were difficult, as I find most poetry
stems from the pain of emotions - for what better sieve than a pen?
There is comfort to me in the forest, and in the cold - it makes us
focus, and takes us from the dark paths where our minds draw us at
times. Snow falls to cover to much.

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Artificium, in the year 533 AD.