Early in the morning, you wake.
You walk outside,
clamber up the quarry,
survey the valley
that place you have come from.
There is snow on the moss,
on the slate,
a light feathering, no more,
and the clouds around you are dark.
You stare at the snow, unsure
whether it is melting, or
a harbinger of a storm yet unseen.
About this poem.
Often, when you fight depression, you wake in what most people would call a funk, and you have no idea if it will lift like fog or fall like a heavy winter snow. Most of the time, which way it ends up is up to me. Thus my early morning battle cry each day as I get out of bed: “It’s showtime!”
Outside there are several inches of fresh snow. But the picture was taken at Cape Cod in March.