Rimy gusts tickle my cheek,
Forcing wintry presence
upon the raindrops of my eyes,
turning them to frozen memories
trapped in time.
Rain strikes its savage spear
clearing the distance between blue yonder and red clay.
Arrows of Adam’s ale spear my back,
attacking my insides till they resemble nothing but wet firewood,
unable to burn at my hearts fire.
Trees brandish salutations,
grappling for my attention
that I misplaced with my reasoning
I yearn for their transformation, from pine to eucalypt,
Alas, no tenacity will return yesteryear.