the cold

it is four in the morning
my coffee cup cold
i fed the coal fire
it is glowing red gold

the world still asleep
as the wind whistles by
i opened the door
not a star in the sky

though no snowflakes are falling
the ground is still white
i could go back to bed
or perhaps i should write

if i put pen to paper
to record how i feel
will this act of indulgence
make it any more real

the writer is restless
the mind searching still
reaching for lost thoughts
to leak frrom the quill

immortal, expansive
will the dark of the night
call forth the words
which lie hidden in light

Copyright © 2013 by Eryll Oellermann