The homeless and the owner

The night is poetry,

I wrote under a tree.

Although I could not see,

it was obvious to me.

The cold wind numbed my face,

and felt like an embrace.

Swirling through space,

it left without a trace.

My words could not be heard,

but travelled like a herd.

Across the midnight air,

with a hint of despair.

Degrees slowly fell,

the opposite of hell.

Everyone could tell,

I was struggling in my shell.

Still the crowd walked by,

not bothering to try,

leaving me out to dry,

knowing I might die.

Until someone saw it all,

A person standing tall.

He asked me "Did you fall?"

And I said "Not at all!"

"I saw you on the ground,

that's when I turned around."

"It's where I can be found,

humans down abound."

"Come with me please,

if you stay here, you'll freeze.

I know a place which is safer,

they call it a shelter."

When day broke, I was still there.

But the stranger was nowhere.

He left a note, how could he dare,

which I was not allowed to share.

I did not think it would,

but reading it felt good.

His words were as it should.

They showed me what I could...

The day I became an owner,

I went out for a stroll.

Things had gotten better.

I was on a roll!

It was a cold night,

I moved with all my might.

Sometimes turning left,

sometimes going right.

Looking out for anyone in need,

I was ready to help indeed.

When I saw him, he did not plead,

but I was ready for my deed.

"Come with me please,

if you stay here, you'll freeze.

I know a place that is warmer,

it's the home of the author."

.