Crunch, crunch, is it food,

or leaves beneath my boots?

Sometimes I wonder why

I pulled up my roots.

My family tree sways back and forth

though less with winter's mark.

Perhaps its skin is just too thin,

or Winter's bite is worse than its bark.

A husky dog digs a hole

as shelter from the cold,

and shares the logs of other dogs

similarly holed.

Here we are, warm, secure,

friends and fire and me.

You are not dogs my faithful friends,

attentive though you be.

Still, with you, my heart stays warm,

while outside it is cold.

And still, with you, my heart remains

through the stories you unfold.

Three stories here I have for you,

in this loft of mine.

Like three wise men, but from the west,

and my foolish gift is wine.

Friends and food, and wine and song

to me have been so sweet.

Though friends are East and family West

I'll endeavour here the twain shall meet.