The winds blow and tree branches wave enraged,
The sky is one gray cloudy mass
While the rain streams down, all is wet.
Outside is bright with the drear ethereal light
Contrasting the interior shock of fluorescent,
Divided by tired panels of rain-streaked glass.

And there you sit.

All ivory-skinned facing the poaching storm,
Ensconced in the library chair you make a throne,
Collectedly attending your papers in front,
Careless of the outside weather as
The rich falls of your hair -
                              A few reckless strands daring
                              To fall as they may.

All the while, trees continue to shake,
The winds to blow and the rains to drop,
But all you have to spare is
a quick glance,
Then its back to work.