You are a field of juniper trees, and your fruit serves as spice.
Bear the meat of your branches to sustain my flesh.

There is an idea that I'm the thicket and the mire.
I am a fen, obstructing the progress of civility.

You have your saving graces, like being late for work.
The windows and doors that break up your walls have purged you.

Talking to you when I'm dour is like tiptoeing amidst 88 keys.
I speak to you in scales and you reply in minor chords.

Diametrically I fear the morning may bring slight frost.
You are still; persistent with the coyly threatening.

And though one of us may be artificial, I was trying to be vague.
But sometimes I get so involved in the actual literal meaning in things.

When you enter, it’s as a fog would, a cloud come crashing down.
And I have failed to avoid the damage in your wake.