now is the depth of winter
when the heart mourns for warmer days
when the sun hides behind the swirling clouds
and light plays games with the fog and the shadows
teasing with the bone-chilling brightness
and the darkness comes before you expect it
gaping like the black abyss
and the neverending fall

and the words do not come
quick-frozen, stillborn in my soul
not so much as a whisper escapes
between my cold-cracked lips

dry, listless wind
spinning the dead and fallen leaves
raspy sussurations against the frozen ground
reach out to catch one
slips away

like snowflakes
grasp out,
they melt into raindrops
mingled with sea-brine tears

creeping dread upon my soul
lost in the fog and the shadows
not knowing which way lies the rising sun
I reach for the words
like rough-hewn handholds in the dark, bitter night
failing, crumbling in my hands as I touch them
I am afraid to climb, yet fearing to fall

struggle to draw forth the words
(like living water, turned to slush in the copper pipes)
the shape and form
of warmth and brightness
the flickering flames of life’s sweet bliss
crackling embers in the hearth
and even the memory seeps away
cold and hollow

to not know the name of things
to lose, each one, bit by bit, drop by drop, to the endless howling wind
of winter’s dearth
desperately digging through the drifts and banks
seeking warm loamy ground

perhaps we must just wait for the ground to thaw