It's been cold, so I haven't opened
The dining room curtains.  I simply
Succumb to the gloom.  The yard,
The fields in the valley below,
And the sky all are white, like
A page without writing, a present
Into which no future can come.
I don't read the news.  It's too darkly
Depressing.  I never go out.  There
Is nowhere to go.  I wait in this
Place which now seems like
A prison, desperately longing
For spring.