There is a Noise

I

Painters are creative,

they say, novelists,

even architects. You,

Becca. You write poems,

you're the creative one.

II

There is a tragedy.

Ice crackling, lonely

sticks stuck in ice falling

like frozen birds

from these dying trees.

Please, somebody tell me,

what is creativity, if not

the ability

to put pearls on a string?

III

I shiver.

Bundled on the porch,

admiring my thick breath,

that solitary lamppost,

an orange twilight.

This sky will create snow.

I say it aloud,

This sky will create! Brother

Sister, Mother, Father:

listen. There is a noise.

I write for you, and the trees

will live again with spring.