Is it bad that I am happiest in the winter?
That seeing ravaged trees surrounded by dead leaves
Fills me with a sense of morbid glee?
That my eyes are adjusted to this world of grey light and long nights?
That the still quietude and bleak view number among my confidants?

Is it bad that I hate spring?
That the lilting bird-song and aromatic air make me nauseated?
That the new life appears crueler to me than miraculous?
And just a little facetious?
That the birds seem dishonest in their returning only in fair-weather?

Is it bad that I’m so bitter?
That I’m only glad when others are sad?
Not that I’m not sad too
That I feel others are the favorites of the galaxy?
After all, why should happiness come to them and not come to me?