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