The Frost's Midst

Is the poem etched in ice as useless as a bird's chirp or the Bee's sting

As useless as a youth's heart full of love come spring

Or does it melt, seep into the soil to quench the flower's first thirst

Which then emerge when it seems the entire

Earth bursts

With colors that cover the full spectrum

To dull and again explode in autumn

Or is it the same as Jack painting his pains

On window panes and the grass blades

An expression lost on those not in the moment

for those exposed, engaged, the experience- fulfillment

True it may be, I speak of worthless things

Hopeless love and a heart's meanderings

But if this be true then so too this life

Take away these, we're left only strife

So, I'll scratch my letters into this frozen lake

When it warms, let the waters take

My words, poems, and silent prayers

For they were never mine, always theirs