The Wrong Season

It is the wrong season for snow,
but the cold cuts your bones
and leaves your heart shivering.

That is the way of it,
and your job is to create heat,
to light fires where none live naturally.

About this poem.

About depression. A dark thing that never lightens unless I do the work.

And I do.

The picture was taken this past winter in the quarry across from my house.

Tom