Notes About The Poem
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WINTER INK
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The nib drags slow as January sleet,
each word a footprint—half-erased, retreat.
The page stays white, a frozen lake at dawn,
where thoughts like skaters falter, crack, are gone.
The stove hums low. The inkwell’s throat is tight.
A sentence starts—then snaps like brittle light.
Some days, the muse wears mittens, clumsy and thick.
She drops her keys in drifts. The lock won’t click.
Yet still I dig through silence, word by word,
to find the one that melts. The one that’s heard.
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