I am having problems penning poetry in Edmonton in winter.
To write poetry, one must have the use of one’s fingers,
Mine, however, are numb.
I keep the circulation going by
Knitting myself a new, warm, woolly cover for my pen.
Our dog, Payton, is pushing my frozen ink pot around with her nose,
Like a doggie hockey puck—
She shoots, she scores!
I am having a brain freeze, but without the benefit of ice-cream,
This is a sad turn of events, minus the Rocky Road.
I want to write, but even my muse is frozen!
My words crystallize into a confused ice sculpture of verbiage
Touching the icy edges, they melt beneath my hand,
Now turning to puddles
Then to air
Then to light.