You remind me of the first time it rained.
The first peck of a cold lip on the boiling broth that was.
That would have been.
Had you not rained.
And there always will be that fear,
That you, in fact, could have not been.
To somewhere else you would roam, on a chariot of lightning.
Showering your coldness,
When I see people speak of you in fear,
Of how you could freeze them with one look at your motionless eyes,
Of stories of warriors and kings that looked at you
And saw no more of me,
Know that I’d looked at you of choice
Not scared of the serpents that twirled and hissed
For to your coldness so stony and grim
I owe my shape and warmth.