A man has to have snow
to write great things.
His soul must be still, white,
must cover over every part of his existence
like a great snowy blanket.
Like the icy, unforgiving fingers of the Muse.
On snowy days, I’ve heard
not even the wind
moves, afraid of disturbing the poetic stillness.
Even the writers who never had snow
were great snowy figures apt to chill readers to the bone
with white expanses of clarity,
cooped up like children on a snow day
in L.A., in the deep South,
on a beach in Mexico.
or great words come