April first and there is snow mixed with rain,
a cold day in the city.
a cold day in the countryside just beyond,
the pretense of Spring no more than that.
The streets are empty.
People are huddled in their dark corners,
in their homes and in tiny diners
tucked away on side streets.
I like it here in the Northeast.
There are seasons to be sure,
but each one is littered with remnants
of seasons past. One never knows
when snow will invade spring,
or a strange warm day creeps into December.
Even the sap, that golden gift of the maple trees
comes from the conflict of warm and cold.
Your mood is dark, and the day suits you.
There is no cure. Only respite.
Only battles won before battles fought again.
And so you savor. That is your weapon,
gratitude in the dark return of winter,
for small things. This cup of coffee you sip
in the diner’s far corner. The warm flannel
shirt that covers your body.
The sharp tang of sausage.
Let the weather change.
It is not the only one who is capable.
You adjust, illness and all,
darkness and all,
finding your light in the most unexpected places,
you become the summoner,
a thin balding wizard, a student of light,
still learning. Always, still learning.
About this poem.
April Fools day and it is snowing outside.
A dark morning inside and out today. I will never win the war against my depression, but I win most of the battles. The older I get, the better I get at it. Age has its privileges.
The coffee in my second chance diner is particularly good today.
From all that, this poem.