6:00 Thaw

Forget about it. Least for now.
I put down my page, leave
the comfortless heat of the fire
open the front door, call for Tiki.

The cool, crisp winter chokes
my lungs, constricts my blood.
Feels good.

It's harder to write verse
in the cruel winter months.
Harder to connect sense
to word.
Harder to draw
conclusions. There are too many distractions.

My eyes look deep into the rain
colored sky, and wonder about others.
In Quebec, perhaps a farmer is crying
over the ruin of the cattlekilling winter.
Or further south, in Syracuse, a fellow
(perhaps like me) is let out of the madhouse,
and wanders about those limestone hills,
his collar about his ears, concerned
about the moving rorschachs
in the paper world of snow.

Tiki purrs about my feet.
I pick him up, shut the door.
Back now to my pen and pad,
and another try.

But the hand is slow.
There are too many snowflakes
against my window,
and not enough time
to catalog
that sleeting moment

and this fleeting moment.
I stand, face the window
and try.

My eyes, painted
by the blue light of February,
my ears, filled
by the treble clef
of melting snow
freeze in awe.

I stand, waiting for it to come.
A thaw of words,
snow in my mind.