S. A. O. | Jonathan Hammond
They like to call it seasonal affective disorder.
When summer dies, the roller coaster soars no longer.
The vacant stare returns into the orbs of the beholder.
Impatience and despair freezes the water-well of hope,
as emptiness increases in the hearts of ones who cope.
Over and over again, depression avalanches these souls.
For days on end, the mountain seems hopelessly higher
and harder to climb. Once, I pondered drowning deeper.
Then, when numbness forbid my will to stand, I saw her,
flying by imperfectly with answers in her teeth.
We knew so little of each other at first. I mean,
she served me coffee and I came back to read every week.
This one time, she joked with me about bringing so many
books to read and I told her my mind wandered frequently,
so it made more sense to have variety and she agreed with
me. It was the first of many conversations we would share.
And now at night I drop to dreams, asleep behind her hair.
We laugh as August disappears, though now I do not care.
As robust autumn makes way for the snow of sister winter,
I think of ways to keep her hopeful through New England
blizzards. Her every kiss is blissfulness and sinks through
skin and bone. I still experience throes of sadness,
but it’s easier at home. I know the sound of sirens,
and they’re easy to ignore. I hold the joy she’s given me, like
flower metaphors. For blooming in my optimism is this vision
clean: that even if depression strikes, at least I have my Queen.
And even if she goes away, her memory sets me free.
