Firsthand accounts frozen in the mind’s igloo
require fieriness of touch by words or vestiges
from tunesmiths of our time to thaw into stanzas.
Past, however unclean has admission. Flip-flop
of feelings censure a sense of stasis. There is no
need to disclose maelstroms. Stillness is smoke.
Fan flame, melt from mind’s eye into memorandum; mildly, now, no tempest torn. – mh clay