Cold is the chill of the northern wind
Uninvited guest from a desolate land,
Lending little but dormancy,
And showing no conscience for life,
Only taking it,
And preserving the specter of death
That only tenderness will abate.

Is it flesh or spirit which saves us;
Not from our own foul hearts,
But the elements,
Always seeking to claim us
Like another trophy of the hunt,
The path of intelligent design
Littered by the unprepared among us.

Sing for me your song of foreboding
High upon an indiscriminate wind.
I hear you in my rest,
Cold breeze upon the mask of life
As my feet freeze within pretense,
And cold chill grasps my lungs
And I see, just this once,
The frailty of my quest:
I am here at your behest,
Insignificant creature,
Both lost and alone.

The nature of my days
May be enhanced by my weakness,
For humility engenders preparation,
A simple act to ward away fear,
But in the chilled scream of the night
When every creature is foe,
I learn, finally, who I am,
And grateful indeed am I
That bravado has been cast aside,
As I embrace the driving gale
And accept my twisted fate.