Beneath an ebony blanketed sky
I opened my ears to the wondering why
And laid myself down in a frost covered vale
To find rest from my walk along a wearisome trail.
There I heard her whisper — the wintery wind,
Reciting her journey as a tale without end.
Her breath swept across both my nose and my cheeks
As she told of her travels over snowy-topped peaks;
And she continued relating the northerly trek
As she spilled her chill down the nape of my neck.
It was then I closed eyes to empathize her pain
And asked would she mind to repeat the refrain.
The retelling commenced with a flurry of snow
And I began to have answers to that I would know.
But, alas, I grew deaf as a numbness took hold,
I could hear her no longer, left out in the cold.
I have long considered myself a poet at heart. But for a county-wide essay contest regarding conservation in the Texas Panhandle, for which I won first prize, and a small number of collaborative works with my brother, Shawn M. Klimek, who is a published writer and poet, I have been previously unpublished. I am the third child of seven, born in Phoenix, Arizona, raised in Texas, served a tour in the US Army in West Germany, worked as a pizza cook and beekeeper's assistant while pursing a college degree, then with a career in California as a county government employee in software development and data management. I am currently retired and residing in the Philippines with my Filipino wife, daughter, and two step-children.