Endless Winter

The wattle of too much pride
hangs from the wizened experiences
of the winter that wouldn't end.

Even as the warmth and light
wake me into a pinkish flush,
it does no good to try and convince
the mind to let well enough alone
and rest.

I cough into the cave of disbelief
and sigh, exhausted
from the repetition of my mistakes.

Lungs wheeze and contract
with breath that must struggle
and blow like a wind
across the parched prairie
of day after day
of denial.