The heat of my chest
From my station in the sun
Echoes the heat of the Winter’s best
My itch to describe
From my station up inside
Boils begone a watery scribe
Flakes of cold design
From a station tow’ring high
Travel acriss and across the Mine
The white world shivers
For its station breeds a chill
Yet the air blow warm about this liver
The warm air skip hop
‘Criss the station ‘cross its plains
For the snows reach flat along their top
The Mine of the land
With its station underground
Gives home and toil; my thinking men stand
My thinking men Mine
To at station appellate
Amidst forever I cut the line
Searching for em’rald
In a station concealing
Caress the stones; the men are gentled
Recede from the Mine
To a station asnowing
Where nature’s storm loads the laden pine
The Winter resides
In its station, a head
Men Mine, snow fly, the caresser guides
From the seat I rise
For the station afoot
Flakes on Mine tongue and warmth in Mine eyes
From sun I depart
To a station ahead
To continue to cut, end and start
My skin emits heat
From the station in the sun
Within and without to think’s a treat
The Wise Ry Guy 