My bone marrow was frozen. My blood was slushy ice. My soul was frosting over. And all I could think of was how poetic my situation was.
There I was, trudging down an empty road in the French countryside, freezing like everything else around me. The vineyards of St. Emilion we were supposed to be visiting were covered in fog, though I had no doubts that they were just as bleak and frosty as the glimpses of little field patches I saw on the way.
Every creaking step I took, words from one of my favorite poems by Tolkien rolled through my head. Deep roots are not reached by the frost. Deep roots are not reached by the frost. It was so inspiring, I had to write my own frosty poem. It didn’t really matter that the poem I was thinking of had less to do with frost and more to do with Aragorn.
Anyways. This is what I came up with.
I call this Frosty Nut-Berry-Thing. It was alongside the aforementioned empty French road.
An icy hand stretches over the land,
A crawling cage of frozen dew.
Trapping all most able to withstand,
A bitter winter, again renewed.
Leaves are lined in silver frost,
Holding on tightly so as not to be tossed,
By the chilling wind that can pierce through all,
All but the warmest hearts.
For on a cold and tiresome day,
When one’s strength has dwindled,
Spirits can only be kindled,
By any heart that’s gay.
For really, what hearts are warmer,
Then those that beat in joy.
The frost that creeps and spreads,
Only happiness can destroy.
So when the air is bitter cold,
And all warmth seems to have been lost,
We must always remember,
Warm hearts are not tinged by the frost.
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