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A fresh coat of snow lines the sidewalk
and a new slate of scenery guides my eyes.
It's ten below and I never thought I'd say
"I love it." So here it goes
in an avalanche of words:

It's a bust positioned on the mantle
with a grin and a "you can do it!"
It's a voice ratting off ideas
in a living-room vacuum,
transferring between hints
of where I could be in five years
and where I could be
on the inside with the heater humming
against my back.

All of them fit into
snowflakes in the sky,
dropping onto my arms
with a dream,
but with each one comes
the downers,
cold and repeating what
I've already heard.

I could be a better writer
if fingers were fine-toothed combs,
plucking out pronouns in a crane game
and tossing them out of the chute.
I would be a better person
if I kept my eyes open,
looking up upon the world
with the stone-gaze of a savior.
I could be a better thinker
if I listened;
I could be an engineer,
but I'm not sensible enough to replace
my keyboard with a differential equation.

Thing is, I'm not a better writer,
a prophet, a layman-
I'm just a man with snow
crunching under his feet.

And I love it.

--

It's four-thirty
and the winter sun's already setting.
I finish up forming white phrases
with my footsteps and walk
back to the apartment door.
The snowflakes still fall,
asking me how this is different,
and I respond with a smile
and a look at my new canvas.

I don't need to leave an answer-
the footprints are already there.

Poet, movie critic, screenwriter, and anything else that involves putting words down.

Writing, playing games, basketball, anything involving music, and poetry.