How dare the days grow longer?
How dare the sun call me to rouse with such brightness and persistence so early each day?
How dare the world fill with the colors, smells and sounds of new life?
The flowers call to me, but I don't want to see how beautiful they are.
The fragrance of Easter Lilies is a balm, but the fragrance of a rose speaks of summer, and love, and celebrations; all things anathema to me.
How offensively perky my capris and t-shirts seem, when I would rather be wrapped in the comfort of a cocoon of cashmere.
Even the candle, lit each morning by your picture, seems out of place in the newfound warmth of each day.
Doesn't the world KNOW it should stop?
Don't the birds KNOW they should stay mute?
Don't the flowers KNOW they should wither and fall?
How can it possibly be summer, when my soul is in the depth of winter?
… and no spring is in sight.
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