Melancholy

My soul is winter under the sun,
I tremble with the cold
that the melted ice has left me, alone.
The warmth I held in my hands
like a bird with wet wings,
my frozen hands.
In a desert where rain falls
like buckets of blazing water
my eyes know only the darkest clouds.
Even when the sun shines
to burn my back
I look deep into it, to blind me
so when the blue sky comes to greet me
in the deadness of each morning
I would not see it.