A lion stretches out upon the land,
Right side of his head cupped by his
Massive paw, staring at the falling
Snowflakes as they drift from above.
His golden fur is soon covered in icy
Shavings from clouds. The lion shivers,
Involuntarily. He does not know that humans
Call the fluttering flakes “snow” or that
What he is experiencing is called “cold.”
The lion rolls his eyes and looks away.
If his glare cannot stop snow from coming,
Then what good is being “king of the jungle”?
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen