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.