For one from the lush green tropics,
The bare white cold was oddly familiar-
Like a remembrance of the old and faint
A wisp of a thing, fleeting yet real
Like a memory of the immortal soul
And not of young mind, not from this life.

Strangely for a sweet summer child*,
Snowed-in white winters were love-
Dark, grey days, long, chilly nights
A hiding sun, in the overcast skies
The deep eerie quiet broken by winds
Wailing and howling with no respite.

Yet there was joy: in roaring fires
Soft, cozy blankets and woolen socks,
Mugs of hot cocoa, leisures of warmth,
Bundled-up walks, clasped gloved-hands-
The humans persevere; survive and thrive,
In warm embraces with those whom we love**.

* Acknowledgment to George R. R. Martin’s ‘A Song of Fire and Ice’ series, Book 1: ‘A Game of Thrones’.

** Wishes, wishes! There’s a country (tumultuous and restive today!) that will always be home, a place that is now a home (of sorts)… and then there’s this country that I wish would be my home. Now what is “home“, again? ❤ G.