Dear Edmonton:

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.