The cold wind blows and no one knows,
when and, if, it will end.
The wild bird fends, its feathers ruffled,
as it steadies itself on its perch.
I feel my heart bend, to be broken in the end,
as your draft leaves me in its lurch.
I cried frozen tears for all of the years,
your cold heart was my church.
But down through time, the cold wind sublime,
blows away the clutter of doubt.
You are in when you're in, and out when you're out,
a cold wind is better viewed from inside.
Out in the open, the wind cuts through coping,
leaving no place left to hide.
Left out in the open, with no way of hoping,
is how so many have died.
For the cold wind has no conscience, no mind,
just a relentless push southward in due time.
As if for to search, a soft resting perch,
in the warm tropics, yet to find.
Copyright 2012 © Ronald W. Hull