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

Love the oump metaphor here. Can relate to needing priming