Untitled XVII

Winter curls fingers back
just to jab us unexpectedly.

Shivers demanded a sweater
today, unable to shake the chill:

but I love these cold, dreary
days. They play sweet melodies
to my melancholic temperament.

There is always something
deep in the mist and moonlight
calling to me with residual

essence of another time quite
unlike the present.
There are memories that I cannot
fully bring into focus.

Perhaps my childish daydreams
paint scenes so lavish that reality
pales in comparison.

If you wondered about my state
of melancholy, I assure you there
is nothing drab about beauty

in a different key. I suppose
some would be unable to exist
where the sun only comes

to play occasionally. Like cousins
who would come to stay
for a few weeks during Summer.

It's nice for a time, but it overloads
the senses, and I long to retreat
back to the darkness.