Like winter storms my tempers flare in gusts,
Intense and heavy and threatening flood.
They leave the gutters full and leaking,
The security of golden summer revealed as fraud.
They leave not the sparkling promise of spring showers,
But the silt and grime of autumnal decay.
And this is only the second week of May.

Dark months stretch ahead.
Though all seasons yield in turn,
A troubled mind sours any day.