Marjorie A. Buettner

Old Winter Stars

Ten below zero, yet the sun streams in through frosted window panes. The land is frozen and white like an abstract painting edge to edge with snow. The day opens up like an unwritten poem waiting, waiting for me. I try to empty my mind but it is all a-clutter, and my life, like this ice-covered lake, cracks and thunders beneath my feet . . .

so much to say
so little to say
old winter stars