Tundra
Today I face my daily tundra,
That white field daring to be filled.
I trek across, leaving letter-shaped footprints,
Marking my passage, if nothing else.
It is cold in the blank expanse,
Surrounded by images of what could be:
The difference between wood pulp and Pultizer could rest
In the spacing of a line, the turning of a phrase.
It would be easier to stay behind in the warmth,
Watching television, reading someone else's book.
But the fire is there, and it drives me, forces my hands
To the keys, my eyes to the screen, my mind to the words.
Today I face my daily tundra,
The cold vista of noncreation.
I feel the fire in my breast,
Melting the white into shape and form.
I'll let it burn a little longer yet.
-"Tundra," 2/22/06, 1:18 AM
That white field daring to be filled.
I trek across, leaving letter-shaped footprints,
Marking my passage, if nothing else.
It is cold in the blank expanse,
Surrounded by images of what could be:
The difference between wood pulp and Pultizer could rest
In the spacing of a line, the turning of a phrase.
It would be easier to stay behind in the warmth,
Watching television, reading someone else's book.
But the fire is there, and it drives me, forces my hands
To the keys, my eyes to the screen, my mind to the words.
Today I face my daily tundra,
The cold vista of noncreation.
I feel the fire in my breast,
Melting the white into shape and form.
I'll let it burn a little longer yet.
-"Tundra," 2/22/06, 1:18 AM