The Coolness of Things

This time will always be the worst.

Those barks! Hunting parties advance.

Help is not at hand, nor ever will be.

Shower droplets on flesh

Strain to overcome themselves,
Bursting into rivulets written down to the ground.

Making peace with the coolness

Could belie years with thoughts like these.

Writing might ramify,

Revel in delicacy.

But the pen-holding hand stays still

And this time nothing cares, for good or ill.