Whether lying in the dark trying to find sleep, or driving alone in my car in winter's black predawn, my mind tends to wander to poetic places I'd rather not visit. I listen to the wind whining in the night and I am a bear looking to hibernate who cannot find its cave. I am cold, so cold, and yet my veins have not frozen and blood still flows from head to toes. The new year should bring hope but January is bleak. I am surrounded by death that they tell me comes in threes, but just when I think it's safe there comes a fourth and fifth. If not running from death, I'm chased by his cousin, disease, who casts a wide net to ensnare us all. There seems no escape. I long for spring, for sunshine, green grass, and flowers in bloom, but they are far away on a distant horizon, I cannot see. January is bleak and I am so cold.
~Elise Skidmore ©2022