As blank as this white screen
is the view outside my window.
Snow falling, snow blowing,
mounding higher and higher
on every surface.
Is it me? Or do you find
that the perfect whiteness
of a blank winter page
strikes up some anxiety?
As if we were still in school
and no matter that we didn’t
know what the hell we were
supposed to be writing,
we still somehow had to fill the
white sheet of lined paper
with our brightest ideas.
Today I stand beside the window
And force myself to slow
Down down down
to match the falling snow.
The only motion is that of
the flakes
pillowing
in steep angles
to the ground.
It being Saturday
There is
Nowhere to go
Nothing to do
Except fill the bird feeders
and build a fire in the
woodstove and read a book
or look out the window
or write poetry and
snap photographs of the snow.
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