#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook she said to keats

In the sterile frozen air of certainty;
as when cresting morning lays shadows
upon the matted moor of memory,
unstirred by gentle spirit touched:
not for thyself, let sight be true.
The wise do ape the snowdrop, heavy-headed
in contemplation beyond the chill literal.
When by warmth or sunlit lengthened days,
without regard for almanac or book,
marked spring appears to meet winter snow
yet to fall. As we drag a romance or a point
to meet a point now passed, unproven,
of it's consequence forgotten; we look up
with spiraling thoughts, slipped in grasping,
and now no warming breath can carry flite.
Best to shake our heads, in time with the breezes
and read to the end of the line, and recall.