Why would I,
poor mortal,
beg at your door?
when last time I stood there,
asking,
for one morsel more,
in the momentary pause
of one heart beat,
i was offered far less,
with the kindly suggestion
that this
was best
for my own peace and rest.
Now pride,
a thick lump in my throat
I can’t swallow,
and won’t,
leaves me with words
I cannot express.
I won’t even try.
I am not going to howl.
I would far rather die
than scuffle for scraps
or ask you again
for warmth at your fire.
I can find my own food.
I would share it with you.
You have no need to hide.
Keep your doors closed.
My wolf sleeps outside.
Accustomed to cold.