Despair
By Laura Adkins

The pungent scent of winter calls,
and the stately oak beside my window cries.
The chilly wind has left his branches bare;
each spindly arm forlornly scrapes the skies.

The cursed cold which raped the sturdy oak
does also nature's frailty expose
as summer's flora withers under blankets
of winter's cruelest, coldest, whitest snows.

Long has it been since I have spoken hence.
Beside me sits the phone, completely still;
no friend nor family considers my condition,
so the ringer never sounds its happy trill.

Another day of white will drive me mad,
for how long have I felt this sad despair?
At once my oak becomes a guest, a gentleman,
and I'm seeing things that simply can't be there.

Perhaps I shall begin a promenade,
and where my walk will take me, none shall know.
My footprints shall leave my mark in passing...
pray I can find my way back through the snow.

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