the words have fled,

so when I write,

I hold my pen

above the site

I wish to put the words I write

and then I wait. perhaps all night.

reader, do you see my plight?

this writer’s block is a nasty blight.

a shadow in the corner of your sight;

a splash of color when your eyes are closed;

a brightness without any source of light;

a misty cloud that hovers like a ghost.

memory of light that recent shone,

painted on a canvas inward turned,

pictures as if etched upon a stone,

past and present under eyelids burned.

moments that were brightest carry on,

little bits of color that remain.

kindling for poetry and song,

all the things our eyes and hearts retain.

the afterimage: such a little thing,

recycled light projected into space.

it’s equal parts of beauty and of sting:

the afterimage of another time, another place.

oh lover of the light do not despair

at day’s quick death in the winter air,

for what was summer’s kingly glow

is not defeated by winter’s snow

but only changed, and scattered far

into the points of a thousand stars:

the glitter of frost, the crystal gems

of ice that sparkle in all the glens,

the little candles in each window,

the glimmering icicles that grow

from every roof, and look at the sight,

of the silent, moonlit, icy midnight.

yes, this is winter, soft but bright;

do not despair, oh lover of the light.