Writer's Block

by Richard Paez

This open field before me:
pristine, snow-covered --
impressions of planter’s rows:
ruled lines, implying rhythm.

This could be any place I want it to be:
a battleground, a place for brides --
anything is possible here,
just waiting to be written in the snow.

But the ground underneath is frozen.
My bones are frozen.

This is the true chill:
and all I can stand to do
is sit and count the planter’s rows
one by one by one.


Posted on 12/05/2009
Copyright © 2024 Richard Paez

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by George Hoerner on 12/06/09 at 01:20 AM

We're all fortunate enough to get it at one time or another. Good write.

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