That cursor

Damn cursor
blinks at me
from the white screen
waiting for this writer
to have a flash
though I’ve never been flashed
and if I ever was, snip snip
with rusty shears needing oiling
as the season for snipping
is over, they sit on the shelf
with seashells scooped
from The Pond
to dry and whiten over the Winter
a whiteness to rival
the purest snow
fresh fallen on a country field
away from smokestacks
which inhabit the land
colouring the rivers
flowing strong and cold
shuddering those who walk alone
searching for red dogwood
to brighten the planters
stuffed with boughs
of pine, cedar, spruce
bringing colour to the landscape
for the garden is asleep
while they seek their rest
only to revive with vigor
in the Spring