Journey

There is a frost crawling up the legs of my chair, But the ink in my pen disregards the frigid air. Closing her eyes and thinking warm thoughts, Writing prayers that will comfort and open our hearts. Ice reaches the paper, My words turn to white. My hands cannot move, But my pen can still write. Carving through the cold ice of hate, The pen continues her journey, A quest to fight fate. For the fate we sought before- Was merely a reflection, Of what frightened us most A combined recollection, Of fear. So my pen stumbles forward, With a heart that still beats Humbles herself, And kisses his feet. And he sends forth his word, and his word melts the snow, With the warmth of his breath, Ink once again flows.