The Winter Man Poem by Paris Thulare

Let me cast you a story,
Of a boy none like cordy,
He who chose moss,
When others ran across.

The winter blossomed before his breath,
When katabatics were savoring death.
He seasoned and oathed under math,
That talks would never pasture his strength.

Twenty something years ago,
Rolling sweets playing Marko,
Dancing to the beats at the back of cargo.
A baby me who knew none of drarco.

It is another century yet,
Of seasoning and chasing yen.
I am the can't get.
The erousal of the might pen
Grow old, My Village poet
Mind not of zan'ten,
Pride is yours to mend
You are the winter man.