Darkness Poem by Morgan Michaels

These are the days orthopedists love-
sidewalks bright with ice
chowder-thick puddles of astonishing depth
that might land you in traction in a trice
and skies anything but blue.
The dark when you get up early
makes you want to flop back in bed;
and the dark when you come home at night
simply messes with your head
All the pots and window boxes
where the mint grew
now crusted over with dirty snow
(God help you, if you have Raynaud's)
and only the stalks poke through;
while over the river go
the long, slow, winter birds
W-M, W-M;
not in any hurry
to get anywhere very fast.
Everything's a slurry.
Hola, ho
None too soon can that old solstice show
making days young again-
that's for certainsure;
unsurprising how in days of yore
men bowed down to the sun.
this I swear is true-
one day I'm gonna move
somewhere new- Ecuador, say
where night time equals day,
where every day the sky is blue
and nothing much ever changes
and you know what you're getting.