In the winter, when midnight's at five,
a broken clock ticks inside my head.
Cold bones ache, so I know I'm alive,
but my life-hung'ring soul is half dead.
Outside is bitten by frost and death.
The tired garden hides former needs.
Dormant plants lack color, vibe, and breath.
Resting hands enjoy a break from weeds.
Caged inside, I hide from endless night,
scrapbooking pictures of life now past,
sunning under unnatural light,
casting aside the stormy forecast.