Coolheaded Poet

writing is best when it is cold
and that is not because it is cold
or that some might think I am old
its what I have been told
here at the computer my hands are like ice
writing away with the roll of a dice
there in not much control
over what comes into my mind
I must just be content
to write whatever the find
sometimes like walking the fens
in tall rubber galoshes
suction holding my sloshing
muck caught steps to pace
and yet I can bet
tomorrow I will be ice-skating
sliding with ease into each new word
like when I was a child skating
on the pet milk companies frozen pond
behind the new york central railroad tracks
near the small white house
where I grew up searching
making my place in the fields
like a weed growing on its own
spreading and gathering voices
and choices for my life
where these words come from