Ars Poetica

It’s frigid out, snow threatening
from a sky that hangs down onto the trees.

The cold has seeped in my windows
onto my feet, which are as cool as frozen steaks. 

If I could thaw out, I might have a poem
that would grace these papers, but like the snow

 the poet just sits heavily in the chair
poems clustered in the air like sleet that won’t melt.

We are always waiting like this, wanting
either the breaking through of sunny poems

or those dark underside of the clouds
to write of the witching times. 

The cat walks by and I see a poem
caught in his fur; excuse me while I try and capture it.