well, they always start
the same way:
in winter. it always starts in
winter when I am my weakest.
unsettled,

raving at the window,
the frost,
the cracks in my joints announcing
themselves in arthritic temper.
  manic
during the darkest months,
at times I know I should
be sleeping but  I am reaching
for anything that reaches
back.

in truth, I am a nihilist and
men didn’t teach me that
nothing ever matters and
nothing is ever coming back.
I watch my days get dragged away by tides
that become encroaching swells
and think to myself,
well, it always starts
with a storm.

“the storm”