Brutal December

Three gray days
of rain
and the sky looks like
the sun is
a jilted lover
that split for the coast.

It's Sunday morning.
I'm sitting at my desk
with coffee
and a blank page.

A woman walks by
in a sea-green sweatshirt
walking two big dogs.
The wind lifts their fur
and from here
they look like calves,
black and white splotches
moving through the wet grass,
tails wagging
like it's spring.

For a second
I'm back on the ranch.
Then I'm back here.

Fall hasn't even
officially started
and I'm already thinking
about winter.
No more golf.
No warm afternoons
walking the course
with a little white ball
in my pocket.
I never got into
ice fishing.

Some people love winter.
They talk about snow
like it's a postcard,
a Norman Rockwell
frozen moment.
I've never been fooled.

I know what comes
after the leaves
and the last warm days.
My mom died in winter.
Fuck you,
brutal December.

Maybe that's part of it.
Maybe every winter
carries something
we lost
under its shiny white coat.

And maybe that's why
three gray days
of rain
can make a man
sit at his desk
on a Sunday morning
and stare out the window,
waiting for a season
that lasts
too damn long.