Dead of Winter

There’s no dead of summer,

Dead of spring,

Or even dead of Fall, though Autumn,

Admittedly, has

Its morbid moments.

Dead suits winter

Like a dark parka

Over threadbare long underwear.

There’s no dead of day, either.

Only dead of night.

Dead suits night

Like a flimsy, frayed bathrobe-

Ghastly bones showing

Through thinning flannel.

The dead of night...

In the dead of winter:

Can’t get much more moribund than that

And still be in the land of the living,

So why...

In the dead of night

In the dead of winter

Is my brain so ALIVE

With spinning ‘what if’s and sprightly dives

Into past regrets

And never gets

To share the peace of the dead

In the winter dead

Of night.

.