I hate this part of the cycle,
This season of echoes,
Emptying out, being left behind,
Forgotten, aging but not old,
Not in shape, not fit for fun,
Just going through the motions,
Not dying and not living,
Isolated, longing to not be,
To not feel so worthless, so unimportant,
Naked, cold, pale, waiting,
Waiting for inspiration, for color,
For the phone to ring or wisdom to call,
Not dead but not bearing fruit,
Longing for the robin to land on my outstretched arm,
Clinging to each ray of sun like child's blankie,
Thirsty for music to fall on my heart,
Hungry for the laughter of friendship,
I hate winter.
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