The newness of the book and pen
counts for absolutely nothing when
the wordless vistas of each page
are frozen and fail to engage
or ignite imagination.
Nothing new about my fascination
with the cold and trackless waste
across which thoughts have often paced,
then stumbled round in circles; lost
and rimed with permafrost.
The icy shock of what was new
becomes a windblown point of view,
as random as a drift of snow,
with only a poor chillblain glow
to light my pathway to the pole.
No new stars from this white hole,
nor any other brightness born
from blankness; all ideas forlorn
as ice floes from Antarctic melt
and distant as Orion's Belt.
