fumbling for the switch, your nimble fingers
in the cold look so different, changed, rearranged,
tiny charred pitchforks in the monster hunting night,
can't grasp the tongue soaked metal of an afterthought,
some say it isn't right for the winter come,
and darkness is the right frame of mind to take,
I've no opinion either way,
outside a disinterested observation,
or so this narration says
and a rhyme.
the darkness is on time, to go or who to when next
we meet, with the ilights on, I don't know.
in the summer perhaps,
when you can flick the switch.
I'm not sure why I can't help you
in this task,
is it because I'm standing here, one legged?
there's one thing to be sure;
You'll have to stretch out and shut the door
or the light will escape, and all your work in the cold
will be for nothing
once again, just my simple, ascetic observation.