Diurnal Musings(NaPoWriMo 2016 Anthology)

#11: Wordsmith's Furnace

My Words flow like wind through winter:
Draughts of drought and discreet devastation,
Clawing at my creative clamours to cess;
Or thrusts of tumultuous torrents, thrashing
Out upon the ground's grey and gloomy,
Colouring it cream-white- a confluence of all
Shades, simmering up a serene scene.

The questions asked are quintessential queries
Of whether we are water on whiskers
Or brittle bark on beech that basks in the
Sun, staying strong and suave in strain;
Maybe we're masked men in masques,
Or naked newborns, nascent, unnurtured:
Parading our probable potential like
Blooming, boisterous, dewy buds in summer.

Here's what I know:
I write because winter means snow,
and summer means water.