Gusts brew in my cup
and yes, I am drunk.
My breath is a breeze,
blowing some comfort.
My hair staggers, falls,
rises, steadies itself.
Yet, earth is my friend.

Eyes painting face dirt.
Lit torch in my hand
will lead me to home,
where all of them wait
til leaves swirl the door
and air's sucked from the place.
Dirt's dried on my face.

Fire-less cold keeps me
hugged down near the ground,
scraping smart rocks smooth.
Yet the calm ember
glows hot in your mouth
but I am still drinking,
and don't want to stop.