The Christmas atmosphere is long gone and leaves no lasting legacy of joy

The air is bitter cold now, not the refreshing breath taking cold of early winter nights

The virginal white snow so pure once, is now turned to dirty grey and black on white

It is the time of year when the days turn to nights unnoticed because of the inane sights

Street people, heads down, hurry, exchange no greetings unless of the vulgar variety

January seems to plod on into February dragging her soggy wet garments of depression

Obituaries grow with the list of those whose poor ragged edged souls could not survive

I sit in my chair my window and watch the world’s bitterness create its own impression

Like an insipid purgatory of nature unfolds the ugly tide of civilization or lack of it

The need to give and love and smile and hug have disappeared like jolly old Saint Nick

It is to early for the flowery yellow hope of new beginnings that Easter will propose

Far too early for the first new buds of spring, it is the time of flu and germ and sick

 

It is the insipid purgatory of nature time of year and only the strong of spirit will survive unscathed