Few birds sing these mornings and those that do stutter their songs. The light is cold and the road is ice shiny, dull and dead leaf littered damp dark lampless. The cold air pulls at the steps I take, trying to persuade me to return to the home warmth and comfort. It cannot hold me back but it can wear me out. I am lost in an unwelcome world, unwelcoming. I must not complain. It is, after all, a winter’s day, on a deep and dark December.
Posted on December 6, 2014 by Robert Kyriakides