miss melancholy

she wades through
a wet week's worth
of rain, of tears,
a pain i fear i cannot fathom

these words can only gasp
for a grasp of what it means
to be forgotten.
when memories begotten
by ghosts of sunny days gone
are just that: memories.

i am sorry.
i know not yet such pain.
i can only empathize so much.

but this though i can say:

the local weather report
may talk of another rainy week ahead.
but it's THAT season, no reason really
to wrinkle your forehead
when the songs of the birds are dead.

they are only hiding.
all falls to a matter of finding:
a hot cup of coffee on a cold afternoon,
a warm bed and the sound of raindrops lulling you to sleep,
the corny joke of a friend desperate to make you smile,
the occasional break in the clouds for light to shine through

the season won't last, of course.
soon the slumbering bear in his cave
will wake to marvel at a world
where winter is only a sentence
lodged in the past tense.