I rise from the ashes of the moon, <br />To see the spectacle that is happening very soon. <br />The bitter cold of this time, <br />Makes my feet fly faster to see my sign. <br />Though the cold takes my breath away, <br />I run faster because the beauty of my sign does not stay. <br /> <br />Through the branches I go, <br />I endure the punches because I know, <br />That my eyes may never be able to observe, <br />An event that is so hard to preserve. <br />I climb until I reach the top of the hill, <br />Where this event shall give my soul good will. <br /> <br />There I see Apollo begin to awaken, <br />By this sight my breath is taken. <br />All the colors which make up the world, <br />Oh, how they swirled. <br />The colors shone in the sky with all their might, <br />And there they were returned upon the white. <br /> <br />Usually the animals would be out resting on the lumber, <br />But this time they are all in a deep slumber. <br />Finally my spectacle is gone, <br />I and thus I take my leave and wait till the next break of dawn.<br /><br />Hannah Bryson Price<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cold-8/
