The long chill of winter
accompanied by short days
settles into my mind for a visit.
Its bitter bite gnaws
and crawls from extremities
to old wounds and new depression.
Its silence- deafening.
Contorter of faces and places
it does not abide a direct gaze,
rather, it prefers sidelong glances,
hesitation and nervous steps.
It cares naught for schedules.
Midnight strolls in day-like light,
daytime chores a burden.
Life is slower, muted, restrained.
there is no solace in its solstice.
My brow furls under my fortieth winter.
I ponder my existence, and with little resistance
I pray for forty more.




Dee


Me too - please 40 more.


8 old applause
