Standing at the window
looking between icicles
I can barely see across the street.
Crosswinds of snow
change direction,
pile drifts against the front door.
I feel trapped.
In the emptiness of necessity,
play a game of Scrabble . . .
against myself.
One by one
a stream of tiles
covers the floor of the house.
Words begin to gravitate
for no reason
other than I might position them
oddly in the sequence of verse.
