While Boiling an Egg

In harrowing fears the wind works against us.
Branches build within the confines of our mind,
the roots of our soul;
the harrowing fears of our very heart.
Snow pelts windows and withers trees
waltzing along the sodden pasture line
forgetting the profit and loss.
Here is no soil but only water,
no water but soil in a bogged road
where pebbles drift from mountains
who too once were the pith of a stone.
The desolate, the heavy earth,
the faded sky is loved by those
who are gladdened by simple beaten grey,
a hoary now with a lurking mist.
Not today, I've learned to understand
the love of summer storm,
but it were worthless to tell her so.