We froze over.
It grew colder and colder.
Exhaling crystals that we'd choke on.
The log cabin was in the distance.
The Great-Horned Owl was perched and waiting.
Never did he anticipate we wouldn't show.
The storm was supposed to be a reflection of character.
Not an abstract piece of art with no clarity.
So here's to the cold hearted, the arctic, the iceberg.
The tongue forever stuck to the flagpole.
Where the warmth won't reach.
Where the feet become rooted to an easier survival.
A standoff between the tree and the axe.