We band together in little tribes.
Lies like snow all around;
Our world is made of it.
We talk of light and warmth
As something hopeful but impossibly distant.
We never feel their touch.
A single glimpse of the sun
Becomes a story told in hushed tones to children,
But who can keep their mind on the Sun
When it’s always hidden behind so many clouds?
The human spirit is still the same:
We learn to love life and growing things
Admiring isolated knotty trees and hardy grasses.
We marvel at some plain little flower.
Nothing in our experience could teach us to imagine
An age of forests, meadows and gardens;
Warm winds and blue skies.
Home is a icy shelter offering partial safety from wild beasts
And a place for restless sleep;
A small cave at the foot of a glacier.
We huddle around a flickering flame,
Shivering in an circle of slight warmth,
Under a trillion tons of crushing ice.