This morning gives
me bitter cold
that kind of cold
that sleeps in
bones

that does not quit
or leave or cease
down blankets
socks or winter fleece

they
do not rid this
aching chill
not running far
nor sitting still

and so I write
because I can
in hopes that
passion
warms the hands

the thawing blaze
of artistic desire
might be enough to
light my fire.