winter is not the time for a poem

december is young;
the ice has already chewed through her.
she is so frozen now that she cannot tell
a poem from a hole in the ground.
There are moments of white and
a series of grey months that do not lead to words.
she sees shadows and shapes that are not there;
glimmers of nothing caught in the pre-dawn silence.
The days will peter out into wordless nights and
she will cut holes in things with a sword.