The Grey Season

It is the grey season,
no longer autumn,
not yet winter,

when the leaves are gone,
refugees from wind and rain,
and the skies match

the cold grey of the slate quarry
that sits barren
outside your window.

There is madness in that sameness,
in the unrelenting grey,
day after day, a joyless horizon

that seems to have no end,
a souless place
where, no matter how far you travel,

there is no escape,
except for the color
you create yourself.

About this poem

Vermont is a gray place in late fall, before the snow falls and adds brilliance to the landscape. I am told that we have an abnormally large number of people here who suffer from SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, a particular kind of depression. It’s easy to understand why.

I’m blessed not to have that particular version of depression. When the weather turns grey, whether in reality or figuratively, I turn inward, to my art, or outward, to the people who bring color to my life. It’s how I survive.

Tom

PS – The painting is one of mine. If you like it, there are more at my artist’s blog, or at Fine Art America.