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.