Maybe poems are coming back to me?

Sugar snow. 

Big, fat flakes that look like lacy doilies, drifting and settling on my car.

The front walk is deceptive: snow covering yesterday's freeze-and-melt, ice--

treacherous-- an unexpected jolt and slide. It's Saturday, so I can watch

nature's handiwork, the prank of it, the fluttering beauty and danger in equal

measure. Soon enough, I'll have to go outside, shopping bags in hand,

and confront the fuzzy landscape, and wink at the robin, all puffed up and huffy,

who waits patiently in the branches of the still-twiggy crabapple tree.

There. It's not quite a poem, but it's something. The miasma that has been choking off my creative brain might be lifting, at least for a moment, like a nosy old woman shifting a curtain aside to watch the mailman deliver the day's fliers. 

There, there's another metaphor. I sure hope my poem-brain comes back soon. This dull, beating, horrid feeling needs to go.

C