Frozen in time
in place
Words don't come
They kick me in the stomach,
tease me with their hints.
Images on the tip of my tongue.
Brilliant, odd words
frozen inside me,
an igloo around my brain,
no windows, no warmth.
I plead,
Heat, come, spark me.
Allow release.
A chechaquo on the Klondike
every time I kneel,
knowing the frosted-to-the-bone ache,
yet so greedy after the gold.
Hell, I'd lose a limb or tow, I say,
wondering if I am that dedicated,
that real,
that brave.
And dreaming about the great melt.
Posted inPoetry
Ice
