Autumn warmth
and rusted leaves hide
the shrouded chill lurking high
in northern lands,
mustering its icy warriors
to creep down in the night.

Keening winds gather dark clouds
about them cloaking the moon and stars
and with furtive breath ****,
the warmth from all about.

Icy blasts ravage the tired trees
as crystal flakes
cascade down from heavy skies;
beautiful, dancing nymphs
misleading my sight
numbing the air,
reaching out to every
crack and cranny.

They gather higher and higher,
blown into dark corners
climbing to my window ledge
as frosty tendrils slink down from the roof,
twining down my window pane
obscuring the outside from my sight …

Then, as morning’s pale light
oozes in through tight closed shutters,
I open my door onto a strange
and barren world:

all that was ordinary and familiar to me,
through verdant spring
and hot high summer,
to autumn’s parade of golden hues,
is lost to the white shroud of
Winter’s Creep.

© 2010/2012

No matter how hard I try
I cannot put what I really feel
down on paper.

You’d think that
something no one will ever read
(probably even me)
would allow free reign
to say what is really going on
inside my mind …

These thoughts and feelings,
my truths,
are there,
sometimes quiet, passive, dull.
Other times,
a maelstrom;
of anxiety,
of anger,
of regret,
of shame,
of loss.

And yet,
as I sit with my pen poised to write down my truths,
I am held back from writing what I need to say
and my words on the page
are empty,
meaningless,
passive,
dull.

And every day I vow to myself,
‘This will be the day I write down my truths.’

But not today -
maybe it will happen tomorrow,
or the next day,
or the next …