SNOWBLIND

Like a pristine field of snow

you glare back at me and I know

that even with the greatest will

I’ll never get the words to spill

upon your virgin gown.

I want to smudge the ashes of my dreams

upon your frigid, frozen streams

that when the summer sun’s aglow

lap gently with a lazy flow

caressing inspiration from my brow.

My fingers lock in  glacial claws

upon the keyboard as it gnaws

and nips upon frost-bitten fingers.

How the raging, coldness lingers

when the heat of passion disappears.

Snow blind on a page of white,

I sit and stare and try to write

of all my frozen inspiration

born from autumns grey frustration

when words tumbled like the falling leaves.