I pick up my pen, but the ink is frozen within it.
How can I write when the ink has left me,
When the colors of the earth are far and subdued?
It’s not for lack of trying – but nothing comes out the way I’ve planned.
I get tired, what can I say?
When page after page hits the floor in a crumpled sigh,
When there’s nothing but snow in my minds eye.
I want this, believe me.
But I can’t force sweet words from my tongue.