Winter Cold

The winter wind is cold as it races unhindered through the hollers of home.
On the sides of the hills old cabins seem to lean into the wind.
Foundation stones reach down into the dirt to better grip on the mountain
The Wind launches itself at these signs of life.
Smoke pushes from the chimney like a baby tryin' to be borned.
Wind don't seem like it wants it to escape from the chimney.
Wind howls in anger down the dry stacked stones.
Screams at the folks sittin' close to a coal grate tryin' to keep warm.

Old logs, chestnut, oak an' hickory feel the fury and groan
As they hold house an' home together against Wind's wrath.
Windows rattle a bit, like old soldiers rattlin' swords.
All know they’re just tin soldiers, their rattle means little to the Wind.
They are at best delights for the folks within.

In the coal grate the Fire burns merrily, unconcerned.
It has but a small space to move, dance and flicker.
"Turn me loose, turn me loose and I'll show you the elemental master" it chuckles.
Even the wind knows that its anger would just be a free ride
If the fire escaped that happy little prison of a firebox.

Wind tries to push up the hills an' deep into the woods.
Trees old as history, young as the summer sway, mockin' the wind.
Some laugh joyfully, thankful for movement in an otherwise motionless eternity.
A few up on the craggy summits laugh like madmen.
They feel the full brunt of the wind, have let it shape them an' they reach to embrace it.
It is welcome to them on the tall mountains, holdin' tight to rocks.
They almost seem to launch themselves into the very air itself.

Wind don't get far up them hills.
It swirls around, looks for another holler, another valley.
The wind has slowed, aged.

Soon its short life will whisper to a stop.

Then Cold will stretch and remind the hills an' hollers it is still in charge.