Winter Writer

The river of words she heard ran dry as the cold came into her bones through the crack at the bottom of the door. That sublime time of rhyme came to be more of a chore as arthritic hands fought to hold a pen type a line ... the mind didn't rhyme. It grew cold and dark without the spark of light that often would appear of its own accord and, whats more, wrote the words before the cold and dark. Winter settling in to freeze and blow the beginnings of snow in the air, though nothing stuck. Nothing at all.