S.A.D., An Explanation In Verse

It is autumn, and you wince
As her cold blanket falls, smothering
The wish you once described
As fire. What is this--? It

Is your heart slowing, as
November’s bland big-top collapses
And closes in, making ceiling
More floor than firmament—it

Is the weight of your age returning
To it’s haunting place, it
Is the memory of innocence reflected
In decay, and mocked
By tinsel and the prodded guffaws
Of a predicted holiday.

It is the cozy
Postcard scene, the hearth witnessed
In passing, a glimpse, or
Just imagined, from the chaos
Of the cross-town bus, creasing
Grand Boulevard in a slurry
Of rain, and regret. It

Is the gift you long
To give, whose ticket
Outstrips your wallet—it

Is the bottoming-out
Of another year, and a brief long
Shot, as the calendar folds,
At an enhanced resolve—

But it, that which
This is, waits just
For one thing—for
It’s only spring which will mark
The true new start, with
It’s birthing and budding,
And blossoming, of possibility, of
The renewal of hope
And the long watched-for start
Of promise.