winter poem

Depression makes for an odd bedfellow.

It’s waking up, happy and looking forward to the hours to be filled, only to find yourself in the late afternoon, having accomplished nothing to mark this day in your life.
A morning spent, trying to sort out just what it is you wish to accomplish , only to   come up empty handed.
If you cannot come up with a list of things to do, how are you actually supposed to accomplish anything?

It’s feeling like these shorter days are the longest of the year.

It’s waking up at 4am because the words are flowing through your head, chanting and pounding, begging to be written, only to look entirely different on the page, mocking your inability to make them stand in a line and behave coherently.

It’s realizing that January has passed, with February right on it’s heels, and all you’ve done is write one decent poem and kept up with the laundry.

It’s rearranging all of the books in your house, because you don’t have the attention span to read them, and believe any interaction with them is good, even if that means merely carrying them back and forth across the room to different shelves.
Worrying over feuds that predate your life. Should you place Capote
alongside McCullers, once friends, before a falling out, left them
with a distaste for one another, that followed them into death.

Would you want to spend these grey days next to a onetime friend,
that broke your trust and never apologized?

It’s not finding a reason to leave the house for days, and when you finally do, only feeling let down by any outside encounters. The world having changed so much during your seclusion, that you have become a stranger, to even yourself.

It’s staring out the kitchen window, at your ugly, snow filled, winterized garden,
and worrying over the fate of your hyacinth patch, that had just gotten up the nerve,
to poke their tiny green heads out of the thawing earth, before the last snowfall
buried them in certain frozen death.
thinking if only you could go outside and play in the dirt, perhaps this feeling to,          would pass.

It’s having a love/hate relationship with winter. The snow, the coziness of a fireplace, and the cocoon of hibernation.

Yet hating the malaise and melancholy that is February.
When every year, you plan to handle it better, to be productive during this shortest (but feels like the longest) month.

And every year, you fail.


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