I say to you, or ask
if you are to come,
and then wonder if it is a task
for you, that you have me shun?
The forecast being rough today,
I long to seek shelter in you;
I may not be prepared for what’s at bay
to topple me, shatter me in and through.
Between you and me – a tree and a river –
one I can climb, the other I can swim;
the cold water, or a colder you to make me quiver
but all which leads to you must be done on a whim.
What is there to stop me, but the fear
that you shall not sooth my soggy wounds much?
I’m not much of a doctor myself, it’s clear –
neither are you, yet you have my nerves in clutch.