February

Grey.  Chill.  February.  Air slips through the old windows.  Goose bumps.  Shudder.   It seeps into bones.  Can it reach the brain?  Decisions come slowly.  What to wear?  What to eat?  Too hard.  Retreat to chair, blanket, tea.  Does it squeeze the heart?  Friendly emails go unanswered.  Appointments must be kept.  Scurry back home, exhausted.  

Industry is the enemy of melancholy, a wise man said.  I could step into the garden, pull back the cover of pine needles, search for shoots.  

Tomorrow.  Surely tomorrow.  Not today.  

Lady Grey.