frozen

writing when it's cold

it’s too cold and priming the pump with other
words cannot thaw my brain’s paralysis

i still believe i have more to write about 
snow turning sharp under squeaking boots

wanting to record the stories of footprints
even as they blur as they are overstepped

by themselves in different lights or dark
dangerous with non sequiturs of steps

series of pacings on the way to and back
from nameless spaces of warmth without words

spelled out in jagged letters of old snow
that melt to nothing as axes tilt toward

an indifferent flow of common words
because it’s too cold to prime the pump with pearls