The clouds are pregnant with grey storms and I, 

sitting on the cushioned couch in a public lounge, 

surrounded in amniotic purple, labour with my pen 

as I contemplate the snow. Cracked hands, 

hands of winter, grip this pen. I seep as I melt. 

Oozed out in blood, my words seep slowly

onto drifts of white paper. What soil will I flood 

when springtime comes to dance? What flowers 

will feed from this dying pool? What poems will scream 

as they gasp their first cold air?