Winter

[E.A Rumfield]

The air is crisp though not yet bitter;
I have yet to rest my head on this somber winter.
Little bird, little bird do not head south so soon
stay with me and try to last this dying season,
until a driving white forces us into a deep borrow
where we seek shelter from the storm, from the world.
Don't you know the climate is cold all over?
Freezing and melting just to freeze again,
barren and fruitless, unable to support the spark of happiness
though with you I've found an abundance of fire wood
and a warmth not unlike that of a stove.
You are like a tree that holds fruit all year round,
and I am a greedy man picking you bare
just to return to find your gift more bountiful than before.
You are something of an anomaly in this bleak world,
a miracle, my hopelessness is fermented in your presence
and becomes a wine that we sit and drink together.

[Sreenan]

Very strong in the first half, though the second half of the poem doesn't sit with me for some reason. I'm not sure how to critique this other than, in my opinion, have a little mess around with the second half again. Great flow of words though, I really did enjoy it.