The only time I could stand to bear the dead season was when I was standing under trees,
below broken branches, staring up at a gray sky in early November.
Cool air bit at my knuckles but I was determined to clear a path to roam
Further I wandered listening to the sound of a Lion’s roar
Crystal streams frozen solid, skeleton leaves trapped underneath
My boot slips only the slightest while I scavenger my way about the woods
Crisp Michigan air fills my lungs
It’s clear now that I was born to endure this kind of weather
Here, miles from my original state of residence is where I’m at ease
Where snow falls drastically peppering the wings of the bluejay as it perches
This is where I first fell in love with the scent of pine and If you listen closely there’s a wood
burning stove in the basement beckoning me.

I call this home.