By Mery O’Connell
Cold red fingers clutching a scalding cup of tea,
and the mist of my breath conjoins with the steam arising,
watching,
as it disappears only to formulate again.
The resonant crunching of leaves has transformed to a sad, soggy squelch,
And I wonder if the trees mourn the absence of their leaves.
The sun still rises, yet shining weaker like joy glimpsed through the morning fog.
Every evening, each time earlier than the last, I watch as the sun retreats below the horizon—
allowing for the cold season of grief to occupy me from within.
Those long December afternoons,
where the sun vanishes before you’re ready, leaves me in a stiff darkness,
allowing shadows to return,
The candle across from me taunting me with its warmth.
Amidst the glacial dark nights
I yearn for the splendour of the sun,
to feel its rays caressing my skin,
the way you would.
But even in the depths of winter
I still remember the warmth.