The woods are painted white this winter's eve,
A landscape portrait splashed with shards of ice.
I long to go, yet, find I cannot leave,
My thoughts of you alone have to suffice.
The cold and loneliness surround me here,
But winds that whisper yearn for me to stay.
My eyes, no more than wells of frozen tears,
Regurgitate the problems of the day.
Yet, herein lies the great poetic sin.
The poet in me fails, no muse, no rhyme.
As words escape this frozen mannequin,
I find the woods a comfort in this time.
Soon evening Saints cast light upon the snow,
Then genuflect, imploring that I go.