The Doldrums of March
The day is dull, almost
shadowless. I am alone; shadow
would have given me comfort.
Pages of ancient tomes,
full of must, call me;
there is always comfort here.
I light lamps
damning the florescent pall.
When bathed in the flicker
florescent lit walls become
blue-tinged harbingers of death.
I worship beneath the
shadow-casting gold of incandescence.
The 300-watt glow of my love-gifted
torchiere soothes me.
I place thin-skinned cheek on
chill of plaster wall, wishing to submerge
myself in shadow, but I do not succumb.
Ah, the page that calls, the keys which click
when pen has gone unfound, are all I have.
Why leave, my heart cries out,
there is only the cold of the grave,
none to mourn your passing.
Only the sterile page,
the plaster walls, the shadowed-stage?
No, I argue with my weary self,
put aside this Keats-like gloom
poverty and tombs, and rise!
The sun will shine at winter's end
to daffodils.
First Published Inwood Indiana February 2014
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