My winter pages are white as snow.
The solitude of winter takes my words away.
I stand like a tree, still and bemused.
Turning my eyes, watching the boys play.
Like winter squirrels scratching
at the ground.
Fashioning little planets,
throwing them into free-fall
without a sun to catch them.
I am content to be where I am,
a part of wind and cold,
of gray peace in the clouds.
Time was, I was a boy.
I was a hare hopping about.
I shouted and screamed like a crow.
I dived at the whiteness like a lynx.
Now I am thought.
The knife edge of a cold blade.
The blackness inside a white well.
I have changed.
I am evening,
I am distance.
A wisp of warmth exhaled from my lungs,
ignited by the cold.
Content to be quiet,
outside a poem.