Winter's Endless Night

In the winter, when midnight's at five, the clock ticks silence 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.