It's bitter cold outside.

I swallow deep, my pride.

The plume atop

my quill would stop

with only me to thank.

There are no herds

of rhyming words.

My frozen mind is blank.

I pray to God

but find it odd

that rhyme's don't come to me.

At any cost

I am so lost.

Is this just meant to be?

But it is rare,

that I would dare

to leave before I write.

Though inkwell's here

words disappear

on parchment through the night.

Not thinking 'prose'

my words are froze

just as it is outdoors -

with barren trees

all stripped of leaves,

like extinct dinosaurs.

Now I confess

that I digress

from what I want to say.

Should I explore

my mind some more -

that's vast as the frontier -

or let you think

I'm out of ink

and end this poem here?

Oh, what's the use

for such a truce?

I'm finished anyhow.

I sure can tell

you know me well.

You're raising one eyebrow.

©2016 louis gander