A Coldness

I reach down deep in the dirt
and there is a coldness.
Not the coldness of being rude,
but the coldness of rugged surviving.
Surviving against all odds;
surviving in the face of a
fierce and mighty foe.
Thistles grow like this.
Heather grows like this.
In the face of death,
some people grow like this -
grow towards deep
strength and coldness.
Standing on the edge
of the waters
the purple and the mist are
a ways off. They lift
me up and bolster me
from my heart.

Seals and gulls flop
and poke themselves
through the seaweed,
looking for treasures
and for things to do.
They are toughened by this.
They have saved themselves for
life and for death - being able
to play. They have saved themselves
from building bridges, and roads
and nuclear reactors.
They all slip, back into the cold,
surviving against all odds, against
the desire to overdo and subdue.
Against the desire to create monstrous
chaoses that they will become unable
to live without. And soon, unable to live
with. They slip through the golden
weeds, soaked with wet chill cold, and
are gone.