got this poem, already typed up and ready to roar and ravish, and it's sititin' there - typed up - two blocks in (name a cardinal direction). did i mention it's warmer here than where i was? twenty degrees above freezin'. warmer. yeah, well, let's digress back to this poem mention'd, it's sittin', just waitin' for a chance to shine. for a chance to be express'd, whatever that may mean. and i type with blunt'd fingertips, goin' back to re-dot Is and removin' Gs, Ds, and random vowels - realizin', this poem was writ when absent the true poem. and i hear the snow falling, i hear the poem wallowing, i hear the silence of creation.