Warmer

Something cold around the corner looms.
On the cusp of December, it awaits.
And though the spring is yet to bloom, 
The winter has sealed its fate.

On the edge of all the lands,
Dark water rising slowly
Beckoned by man’s outstretched hand–
Grasping, greedy, unholy.

And though these lands will disappear,
The higher worry not.
For when those in the valley fear,
There is no dismay upon the mountaintop.

If you can somehow pay your way,
Perhaps you can climb and hide. 
But be wary of the cost
To escape the rising tide.