It will be a cold morning
much like this one,
when the air is crisp and biting,
where my alarm will sound
violent against the calm quiet of early hours
but I will not get up.

I will lie motionless
like a rock or a mossy rotting log
barely breathing
the muscles of my chest and the twitch in my arm
the only visible distinction between life and death.

It will be this morning
where I will feel nothing:
no aching back
no painful neck
no throbbing eyes
just pure black nothing.

The phone will ring
but I will not stir
to answer its demanding call.
There will be knocks
on my solid front door
but still, I will not rise.

And I will tell you why:
I am waiting
for the warmth and sunshine
of the fresh and beautiful spring
to thaw my tired bones.

© J. Bernhard

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