Dysthymia

Yellow-gray light
filters through the craggy branches
of a bear locust tree.
Most leaves have decayed completely,
some decompose under the ice and snow.

This isn't the kind of sadness that leaves you;
it hangs around like remorse
for a past mistake that refuses to be silenced.

But like a long-lingering odour in the air,
it can be tolerated
and eventually accepted.

This spiritual condition,
this silly circumstance of my humanity,
I own it and take responsibility for it
completely.