Pressed against a grey plain of sky,
branches,
mangled,
meld together,
forming an exquisite collage,
of burnt-sienna and ancient sage.
Beyond,
the clouds stampede across,
prodded by a swift whip of wind,
branches,
mangled,
meld together,
forming an exquisite collage,
of burnt-sienna and ancient sage.
Beyond,
the clouds stampede across,
prodded by a swift whip of wind,
That whistles sharply,
Jostling,
The loose windowpanes,
Of a humble cottage.
Weathered with the scars of treacherous weather,
And crippled by the passing of time,
The hovel stands,
But stands alone;
Nestled in the many vines,
Poured by the willows branches.
Within,
A creature,
Humbler, still
Encroaches upon nature,
Overgrown,
Within the hovel man once made.
It trembles beneath nature’s blanket,
Crisp.
And is naked,
Compared to the frigid air.
It cowers at the resonance,
Of the shrieking,
Angry wind;
Yet,
It remains a hostage.
Protected by eroded stone
Lest it suffer natures wrath,
It stays Within the hovel,
Lone.
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