Winter (again)

It is March

and the sad blanket

of winter

cleaves to me,

promises warmth,

if I hold on

long enough.

But I am still,

stayed,

in a northern limbo

of darkness

which penetrates

the soul

in a rigorous test

not for the fainted

heart.

The body,

head down,

will make it through.

The soul,

the soul suffers

a lingering ennui.

Long after

the first melt,

an ancient chill

remains

deep in bone,

turns on a recalled axis

of despair.

I look and look

for the door

leading to

the light