As the solstice comes coldly
you sense the mice nibbling daintily
on the final grains of your certainty,
(slowly, steadily)
with the long winter ahead, too.

No one is immune to sadness and many are susceptible to its big ugly cousin, depression. What I wanted to capture in this poem is the quietness, stealth, inexorable advance and demoralization of sadness as it comes upon you, as you start to question—when you feel the dark and the cold coming—your very own worth and faith.

Thank you for reading Nibbling. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.


© 2012 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2012 by John Etheridge,

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