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
1 comment:
Nice poem. I envy people who live where it snows. I've never seen real snow before. It snowed here in Houston about six years ago, but it was very light and didn't stick. In the end, it was just dirty slush.
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