At about this time every year, I feel myself start to slip into depression. I know another winter is ahead of me -- cold, dark, bitter, suffocating -- and it's all I can do to drag myself out of bed every morning. The thought of having to struggle into six layers of claustrophobia-inducing clothing and slog down to the bus stop in the dark at 5:30 every morning, and then having to peel off five of those layers once I get into the overheated bus...and then having to put them on again before we reach the subway an hour later...and taking them off again once I get to my office...It all just makes me want to bawl -- not a gentle weep, mind you, but a raging howl of protest. I see the leaves falling, the frost forming on the crunchy grass, and I know what I am in for.
I try to combat it with positive thoughts and vigorous exercise and vitamins B and D and grow lights hanging over my dining table. And, occasionally, poetry.
snow is falling,
mounding on bush, tree, fence.
My world becomes a padded cell
clouds drift lower
awakening the grass,
hidden flowers astonish, gentle
crimson and gold,
autumn's bright fierce glory
in one brief soundless explosion
like blood --
turning to brown,
sodden, cheerless, whispering
of winter's soulless chill and white's