all those ideas
that hate the chilly weather
sneak inside and slink
into the put-away
things of summer
hide under my sandals
inside pockets of the short-sleeved
or burrow into the summer dust
knowing I’ll not clean for awhile
a whole hot season
of nuggets veiled in shadows
the crags of mountains
and old mouse holes
those inklings nearer now
the hunt closer to home
cold and tired of running
one concept clings
to an old used pen
hoping for a bit of heat
at least from the friction
as he’s being scratched
into a poem