it should be snowing, but it’s not.
Each and every season fades into the world,
leaving gray, wraithlike emotions--
haunting every year of passage.
I cannot allow myself to feel
especially when thoughts screech out,
like ravens, trapped in a black slate box.
A cacophony, which I’ve known far too long…
since I placed silver nails, firmly,
in those cedar, one way doors.
the moon waxes and wanes and re-cycles.