A chilly place called home

Wellington, you can be so nasty and cruel sometimes, sneaking your icy fingers into the tiniest gap in our clothing. No matter how hard we try to cover up, to shield ourselves from you, you still find a way in. We rearrange our scarf and you sneak down our neck; we pull our collar up and you creep up from the ground inside our wool coat; we pull our coat closer and you slip through the gaps between the buttons; and before we know it, we're at work where we can be warm, at least until our stomach starts to grumble, then you meet us at the door. Then, for no reason at all in the middle of an otherwise miserable day, you part the clouds for us and that blue sky we see so rarely at this time of year frames you, our city, just the way we like it and we ignore the icy fingers and forgive you for another day because, wind, hail, snow, rain or shine, you are our home.