A strange sadness,
like the cold
that creeps under
the front door,
seeps its way
into the home that
is my chest.
it clings to my heart
for a while,
and burrows its teeth
into that tender place
most poets would
call the soul.

The solstice is here,
our harsh winter
begins its slow
farewell,
like an actor finishing
his soliloquy,
the winter turns
to the audience
with a grand shivering bow,
and steps back behind
the curtain of seasons.
With it,
I’m sure,
this soft melancholy
will trail behind—
Slipping from
these rotting bones—
Leaving me with
that dull ache,
only absence
can inflict.