I feel it…

the slow creep

of oblique melancholia

that seeps beneath

the skin

as daylight slips,

eclipsed by dark.

Hours dim and dwindle,

smudged from each day’s

steady transit.

Hoarded light reclines

toward torpor,

awaits eventual

rebirth,

while in the interim,

I feel –

oh so keenly –

its very

dearth.

— C.Birde, 12/20