Tired as a Cold Gray Winter Day
So tired,
nearly blank—
thoughts freeze
in mid-thaw.
Icicles—
blunted pens of invisible ink
write into snow,
punctuation marks without words.
Snow—colorless from a distance,
yet each flake,
a cut-crystal prism
turns white light
into sparks of rainbow—
that alight and disappear
like feelings that flicker
and escape my tired mind,
heavy with a day's blizzard,
settling into a drift of thoughts:
If “I think therefore I am” is true,
then what am I now?
I sense my “am”
in a sense of touch,
my fingers on the window,
its cool glass,
in the still silence
that I can almost see,
and in my smile
as I notice snow cushions
on my summer chairs.
Marso writes poetry shaped by years of living in different cultures and by a practice of paying attention to ordinary life.
Amethyst Review 