Waiting on the Thaw

Snow on the trees. Still. Grey weather.
The smallest bit of ice on the road,
just enough to surprise you.

WInter is here before the calendar,
and will stay, if history is any measure,
after.

An eternal season, always on the edge
of your mornings. Even knowing the sun
will come, it is harsh, cutting, a threat

to upend you. To send you off the road,
into the ditch, into the frozen creek.
and so, you drive. Carefully, slowly,

waiting on, counting on, the thaw.

About this poem

About the season (It is Vermont, in November and looks like winter right now), about depression. About anything that plagues our hearts, that we are working through, a reminder (because I am always preaching to myself) that the sun comes to those who believe.

Tom