The cold air chews through my clothes,
gnawing on these old bones.
The air crisply attacks my nose
as I shiver with the coldness.
A warm hat on my head
with flaps to protect my ears.
Gloves with a warm lining
keep the fingers writing.
I don't like this Winter chill
especially when it's still Summer.

A waft of smoke
from the small fire,
with intense heat,
stoking a new desire,
to live once more,
under the bright star
and to be the man
you know you are.

Sitting around a campfire at night
the front of you is warm.
Your back is cold as ice.
Telling stories of days gone by;
embellishing as needed
to maintain the lie.

There is no comfort
in sitting here,
unless of course
the cold will disappear.

The song you sang,
I've heard before.
About a lost love,
not here anymore.
I know not of love.
I'll say it once more,
for my personal feelings
lay on the floor.
No feeling of despair .
No feeling of loss.
No feeling to care
about another person.
It's not for me
or the pain in my heart.
It is still there with thee
as my soul tears apart.

A garden child, I am,
as I sit here,
amongst the green
a most pretty scene.