Something about the way this valley
can extend and flit the smokey mist
like the winds that pull gentle heartstrings.

Behind gazing eyes I wish so so badly
mountainous strength to subsist.
This frostbitten face yearns for Spring.

Need not, from any well but of your own,
glossy eyes grazing the mountains to find
that winter makes forests seem less intertwined;
only in frigid air is the true tree shown.

Want not, the annuals that come and go,
dark and shade may intrude on shine.
Dig firm these roots, these ties that bind.
And then so, worry not when leaves are blown.