Poem.

Winter is a cancer. The trees receive their annual chemo, and the leaves abandon the branches which point to the sky like boney fingers.

Winter is a burial. The snow engulfs the ground in deafening white silence, embalming the soil till the spring.

Winter is a séance. The ice demons invoke their dark magic on car windows and house gutters, the icicles pointing death at the ground.

Winter is inescapable. No outlet, no exit, no safe haven to hide.

Winter is depression.

Winter is sleep.

Winter is suicide.