Depression doesn’t sneak up like it used to
when I would shuffle through the house
and discover it had moved in
painted the furniture grey
sewn weights into all my clothes
or worse, in the before time
when the world was a drop of ink
smeared across the paper
as I dragged my hand across the page
and wrote myself into a corner
it sang to me in those times
in a tender lilting voice
and fed me drops of honey
in the brief seconds between the dark
Now it announces that it’s coming
a postcard with muted tones
a thinning of the air
making my chest labor heavily
seeing the stain on my hand grow deeper
I cannot waive it away from here
or seal it away in glass
but a tea kettle of water can heat up now
and snacks be set out on plates
for the hours that we’ll visit
it still sings to me in these times
a dirge but not as threatening
and I sip from my cup unsweetened
and hum along to it’s tune