The White Poems (Poetry)

Some thoughts believe the breath of winter brings them —
lines gleam like frosted stems alive with light
crisp from clouded dreams and newly fallen —
conjured out of nothing in the night.

Words crystalled by clear sky’s imagination —
patterned into poems drawn in sleep
and chanted like some ancient incantation
drifting — acres wide and fathoms deep.

White has spelled their nature born of fusion —
they cling together — layered whispers press
their meaning — subtle shades of an illusion —
a lingering of magic. Nothing less.

Each offers up its own interpretation —
folds enigma in a shaft of light
while musing on a prism’s fascination —
how can such colours spill from lucent white?