Needle Pokes

In the winter forest cold, cold winds blow and snowy snow snows as the porcupines come to know: this blizzard will do as it does and it does surely grow.

The ice and sleet beneath their feet chill them to the bone and with a sense of defeat, they accept they won't survive this storm alone.

So with steps of one and steps of two the porcupines slowly move. When they spot each other, their hearts, they flew; for in another is the warmth they wish they knew.

They run to each other with strides of one and of two, the closer they were the warmer they grew, melting away the black and the blue and the white icy ash of a blizzard-filled past, finally ready for something new.

Closer and closing, each step ever-warming, until without warning the first needle pokes.

Porcupine says to themself "it's fine, it was one little poke, I really don't mind, it was probably a joke I just didn't quite get, at least not yet, though I'm certain I will; besides the storms bound to kill so I'd best stick around."

But then there's a poke and a poke and a poke again, the needles can't help but seem to dig in until Porcupine's skin and spirit grows rough and they scream "THAT'S ENOUGH! I'm fed up with the pokes; I swear you're bound by chain and by rope to bring pain like some wicked game, IT’S DRIVING ME INSANE, so congrats, I guess you won."

Porcupine storms off alone into a storm that's only grown. As the cold makes his needle wounds sore, Porcupine thinks "what a cruel joke, I'm colder than before and miss the warmth of a needle poke."