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By: DaisiesNFld~

All winter lay the folded hands
That never touched the quill
The bottled ink awaited command
While the poet remained still
.
Ice that froze a world outside
Left fingers cold to hibernate
The words within could not begin
Until the muse would cooperate
.
The paper heard not a single word
But lay flat, dry and white
When all around the only sound
Was of falling snow into the night
.
Brushing snow from the window pane
Gave a view of winter’s wonderland
Said quill to ink and ink to poet
Unfold your idle hands
.
Behold this sight this very night
When you and all lay still
This is your muse that calls to write
And lonely is the quill
.
© DaisiesNfld