On Winter Afternoons

I hate winter. The cold, the darkness, the glimpse of absolute isolation I see inside every frozen puddle, the cold desolation that grabs the heart, the lungs, the spirit....

I think of Emily Dickinson again:

There's a certain slant of light,

On winter afternoons

That oppresses, like the weight

Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;

We can find no scar,

But internal difference

Where the meanings, are.

None may teach it anything,

'T is the seal, despair,

An imperial affliction

Sent us of the air.

When it comes, the landscape listens,

Shadows hold their breath;

When it goes, 't is like the distance

On the look of death.

I have suspicions that if I really tried, I could be diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder. I'm not really there, though. Not quite. I just find this season depressing. There's a hint in the cold, short days that perhaps death wins in the end. Spring is there, somewhere ahead, but on days like this, it's hard to believe it's real.

I hate winter.