Cold and out of sorts is how you'll find me at this
Time of year, bled white by the lamprey fog, 
Downcast to see the cast down leaves, the trees
With naked, bony branches.  Loath to pass
Beyond the door, yet bored almost to death
For having spent successive days inside with
Books I've read, reheated coffee, I grow prone
To taking naps, to snapping at my family members.
They've done nothing wrong.  It's just that
I am out of sorts.