This cold brings home the grimy side of life,
By what it was I had or never knew,
Possessions against need or what was right,
What was my world left frozen through.
I think that every season has a switch,
To activate by equinox precise,
Then turning on the outlook which is which,
The setting now, the world is made of ice.
So yesterday, the heat was off all day,
Some seventeen degrees and how I felt,
How chasing dreams of skill came out this way—
But whose hand dealt the bad hand I was dealt?
Depression is a failure as a word:
Perhaps to say collapsing of a world
This poem was published this past winter in NewPoetry.Net. Equinox had been rejected by Raintown Review, One: Journal of Arts and Letters, and Into the Void. (Note the Oxford comma.)