Frozen in time,
in place.
Words kick me in the stomach,
tease me with their hints.
Images on the tip
of my tongue.
Brilliant, odd words
frozen inside me.
An igloo around my brain.
I plead,
Heat, come.
Spark me.
Release me.
A chechaquo on the Klondike
every time I kneel.
Knowing the frozen-to-the-bone ache,
yet so greedy after the gold.
Hell, I'd lose a limb or two, I say,
wondering if I am that dedicated,
that real,
that brave.
And dreaming about the great melt.
Copyright © Jo R. Hawke. All rights reserved.
