In This Neck of the Woods

Staring at the blank sheet

of paper on the table

reminded me of looking

at a blanket of snow.

The solitary tree here

is nothing more

than barren bark.

I have no words

to usher in a season of Spring.

The only visible trace of me

lies idle upon the flakes,

full of ready ink but

caught in the dead of Winter.

The snow is piled high

in this neck of the woods.

I will return

at the first sign of life,

with the melting of ink

upon the leaf.