I step out the back door, the cold rushes to my face.
Bringing with it the memories of the year’s recent past;
The winter stings my eyes, much like mace.
Oh how the memories return so fast.

The chill penetrates my bones,
bringing upon me an internal tremble.
The wind gusting likened to cyclones,
The chimes clash like a cymbal.

The precious gems burning overhead,
With nothing but a small ember for internal warmth,
I gaze upward, the sky as my bed,
Blowing the smoke north.