Then snow on the ground does
not bother me. There is not
enough to make a snowman.
What does bother me is
the damp cold which penetrates
one to the bone and also the
gray clouds which seem to like
us to the point of showing up
every day, all day. On the
horizon, the sun breaks
through the clouds and
reflects off of the water.
We cannot see the sun,
only the blinding reflection.
My wrist and fingers are sore
from holding my pen.
Atmospheric pressure plays a role.
The waves are languid as they lap
the shore. People who are out
are sullen and nonresponsive to normal
greetings. It is the time of year
for reflection and thankfulness,
but nature has a headlock on us
in this regard. Work is piling up,
but we have no momentum in
this regard. I have cards to write
and send but no ambition. This
goes for gifts, too. It is afternoon
and still overcast. This will change.
Tomorrow may be sunny and fair.
Then I will feel for those who have
little food and water and are
suffering without shelter.
Some are forced to work like slaves,
but would rather die. Life has no
meaning for them and death would
be a luxury. Soldiers killing soldiers
over land, once productive, but now
useless. There is no reason other
than ego and control. A miserable
life for no good reason. I feel bad
about my pettiness. Tomorrow
I will perk up and start anew.
Stanski
December 1, 2022, ^
Steve Haarman 