Four Years of This

It is more complicated than an empty coldness

Swirling, grasping at my apartment, my campus, my self.

More than the gray that hangs, suspended, a dead weight on the shoulders of the clouds.

The days that don’t fit meteorogically–

The days that sneak the sun in while we sleep softly, swallowed by protective blankets

Are the days that make yesterday’s biting, ash-gray not evil.

We breathe steam at the cold,

Fighting, waiting.

And as soon as we forget the possibility,

That steely cold subsides

And we wake to a fifty degree day in January.

Snow melts, water falls, smiles circulate.

And yesterday’s torture is forgotten.

And tomorrow isn’t planned.