I wrote a thousand words down,

mostly direction, some form,

all cloud and dust from a temper that rages

to be free, simple

and subtle substance of memory

adapting to a new place, released

by a new phrase, new belief,

and yet as I look upon this meagre world

where pseudo black ink

discretely blots out pages of snow

and ice bound though,

I cry a little, for it surely is all for nought.

Ian D. Hall 2018