He was an old man, who lived by himself in a old cabin, lost to the south he had no happiness, no family, no wealth he built with his hands and, cared for his health

rustling river, sparkling leaves, the sounds that he knew whistling birds, howling wind, the chittering wolves the fungus grew from things he knew, the cracks of breaking wood, his empty flask, his broken ax, his coats of wool and fur

as the skies darkened, frost grew on earth, he knelt at the table, his wick slowly burnt he raised both his hands and, curled into fists struck at the daylight, the moments that he missed, the food that he savored, the people he'd kissed

one day he could feel, no more through the pain fell onto worn carpet, and started to sing

rustling river, sparkling leaves, the sounds he knew whistling birds, howling wind, the chittering wolves the fungus grew from things he knew, the cracks of breaking wood, his empty flask, his broken ax, his coats of wool and fur