The Art of Speculation

A hundred miles
Means nothing
When the sky looks like this
With wind raped trees
And color painted leaves
To mask the harshness of day
Summer’s kiss is biting back
But it still is only a nip
And I am convinced
That we are looking
Out the same broken window
Onto a vision of grandeur
Sculpted from the fires of hell
As well as the snow from heaven
For speculation’s sake
We must be standing
Side by side
Hand in hand
So close we could nearly touch