A chilly thing comes over me,
Rolls in like a dense, white fog
As articulate and elusive as a spider's web,
A contraption to transition from one state
       to another
Of my creation.
My little mind fairies pull a blanket to
      my back
And pat it in place -
There, there,
This bleakness of mind is but a transitory season.
This, I know.

My eyelids drop in dejection,
The horizon seems to retreat out of sight -
It, too, needs a rest, is tired of failing
Against the pervasive cold -
It tries,
It fears failure,
And fails sometimes.

I begin to leak liquid from within,
It souses my clothes, filling my shoes,
My posture gives from the familiar weight,
It runs into cloud-shaped puddles
      in wanting likeness
      of their weightlessness
      and place in the sky.