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.
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