With quill aimed
at a white surface
I raised my pen.

Feathered quill was filled
with energy ready to strike,
as if bow were words
and pen arrow.

The enemy was white
and blank faced
as i felt unseen eyes
stare hidden
in a snowy field.

With full arsenal of breath
I focused,
as soon visions came alive
inside a landscape
where ink flew hitting its mark
The snowy white banks
were no longer.
In its place a house was built
where a poem
now lives.