White Christmas

Pressed, uneasy,

fighting to feel productive

it's so dark

the sun can't feed me

sinking back into the couch

disgust

but then the flakes

on the breeze

flurries of pure white

storms of thoughts blowing away...

and now the darkness feels like a hug

the snow glistening - a lullaby

I am held

like a cub in a den on a bed of leaves

everything is all right.