The structured argument
struck the frame.
Blame rested squarely
on his shoulders.

The older he got,
the colder each day became,
and when he came,
the same was said.

By then, the minutes
poised in the pendulum
had the look of a winter storm.
Warmth had failed him,

and he breathed.
It was all he could do
to silence the frigid mounds
of protest. We all benefited

from his protection,
yet our temperament
made us distrustful.
Distrustful was the worm

of the day. Some say
he never really was.

-r. miller

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