a poem is all you will ever need (or is it all you ever need is a poem?)

you think you want fresh blueberries
when you look outside your window
as an ice storm rages
but
you're wrong, it's just blue skies,
miles and miles of blue skies,
adrift
above your open sea,

hunger
never does recognize
itself
chunks of frozen cold
seven-eights below
your soul,
burns through
to write your poems,

but life is fickle
a poem more
so, by the time you finish
one, there will be another,
and who will remember
the last one?

when the light fades
into what is no more
blueberry stains will be like
ink dribbling from your mouth