Winter

A winter stupor.

Heavy blankness, mind clouded by illness.

Sitting in the same chair,

in the same room,

amidst the same grey morning light.

The dog begs for attention—

out and in, up and down, back and forth.

The hours slip by and all I have done is move

from the bed to the table to the couch to the chair.

I have eaten the same breakfast and read the same newspaper for years now.

Has it ever been any different?

Weighed down by routine,

Life becomes robotic.

In a cage, in a jail, in a box.

The mind has the same thoughts, again and again,

creating deep ruts with its churning wheels.

What do you do when creativity dies?

When it withers and drips,

slimes and decays

like grapes sitting too long in a bowl?

When the mind becomes wooden and stale?

It is February and I dream of exotic, tropical places.

Complex and intricate fantasies that may go on for hours.

Then I realize I am still here,

in this grey morning room

in mid-winter.