White chill pours though me
as I wait for words to distinguish
themselves on this blank page.
Prolific production came after you left.
Upon that anniversary of warmth and sun
the flow trickled to a whispered hum.
And now I wait for others. Not you.
Yet, like the gift of angel speech,
I feel it – just behind that veil.
Waiting too, for invitation.
January 17, 2007