WRITER'S ICE BLOCK
by Ruth Latta
This week's the coldest that we've had so far.
The chill seeps in past doors and windowsills
and knots my muscles, keeps us where we are,
curled up in heavy clothes against the chills.
The brilliant days turn sunset; then comes dark
and evening brings the question, "What got done?"
The basics, only. Each electric spark
was static, did not fuel creative fun.
A waste of life, these hibernation days!
Where are the calories to push my pen?
My mind's suspended, in exhaust-fume haze.
I ought to write, for, if not now, then when?
This creaking engine takes a while to warm,
but when it does, some crystal thoughts may form.
(c) Ruth Latta, January 2011