tap, tap, tap,

the first drops of rain do fall,

they race down from frozen, lofty realms,

from darkened clouds lost in the night,

outlined by distant, flashing light,

they dance upon the rusting metal roof,

that mere shelter that hides this weary, weakened soul

from the fury of nature's cold-hearted way,

that tests the worthiness of life below.

the counted drops become a stream,

the stream, a raging flood,

the rising wind begins howl,

as it hurls the icy waters

in cascades of cannonade,

pounding, pounding,

as if watery fists upon the fragile glass of window panes,

again and again,

wave upon wave,

the cold, cold hunter of this wintry storm,

he hunts for me,

stalking me,

wanting me,

demanding me,

I, this mortal one, who dares survive his fearsome snarl,

huddled near my warming fire,

old oak logs giving me their last task in life,

in crackling sparks and white hot coals,

praying with me,

through the frightened hours of this night.

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