My sun in the rain,
And my warmth in the winter.
The chill in my spine,
And what makes my eyes, glimmer.

Interlaced, yet slowly paced,
For all but one, can make true haste.
So, much of time will go to waste,
Though hours are not how lives are based.

Your craft, my art,
To do either, we need heart,
And desire
To finish
What we,
Start.