The Cruelest Month
In an eloquent poem about
depression, T.S. Eliot wrote
“…April is the Cruelest Month…”
Depression: I’ve been in the same boat.
But it isn’t April’s renewal of life
that hurts my mind the most.
It’s the slow death of autumn,
to which November plays host.
Green is scraped off our palettes,
leached from stalks once flower crown’d.
October’s blaze of glory lies drab
under our feet on muddy ground.
The sunlight weakens till we crave
it’s healing touch. We cannot cope.
We isolate; we shut ourselves away.
November is the end of hope.
Copyright 2017, Rebecca Logue