Sonnet No. 101

[November 4^th, 2013 – 8:16 am]

Sometimes the draw of this paper is all

I have to pull me out of bed, and think

My lonely snow-white sheets will take the scrawl

Of my restless hope spilling out into ink.

I imagine Zhivago, and the ice

He had to chop through to get to his desk,

But – the unfrozen chamber must entice –

For at its center, lays love picturesque.

Alone with my sheets, I draw you out too;

I write your name at the top of my heart,

And allow icy blood the ink to bestrew,

For every word is drawn before I start.