A poem
Before a chilled pane,
frosted by the crackled hoar of staccato chatter,
inane and unintelligible in this leaden atmosphere,
I stand and wait, detached and inarticulate,
as life flitters around me
with broken wings
in a seemingly disordered flight
My charts have faded,
as the compass needle wavers aimlessly,
and the pathways are unlit,
even to the seasoned and sharp-eyed.
Perhaps the hiatus will heal,
and threads will join the loom again,
yet part of the pattern has gone,
and weave and weft are irretrievably lost.