The days draw short
the rooms gather dark
and the sills are coated in dust.
Cobwebs collect in the corners
the air smells of
stagnant must.
The greys and beiges and
press of time
have leeched the color
from this place.
Crowding out
memories of wildflowers
and mementos
of brighter, summer days.
And I have paced these creaking
floors
until I’ve worn ruts,
have paged through
weathered tomes
and earned my paper-cuts.
I’ve beat my fists against
peeling paint
have ripped all the curtains
down,
have burned through all the
firewood
and still—
winter lingers ‘round.
The ivy grows thick
at the window
occluding light from outside.
But even I can see
the new buds
unfurling each evening tide.
It is spring out there
and the fawns are sleeping
in the brome.
It is spring out there
and bursting with life
beyond this home.
But I am trapped
inside this body
no matter the cabin fever.
I am trapped inside this body
and it is always winter here
