People tell you how lucky you are
how it must be hard to leave. To go into town even.
They wave their arms around in the air. They sigh. This enchanted space this hobbit house these snowy fields these whistling woods these wild animals these soft mountains these working farms these goodly people.
You nod. You smile. It's all true. There's no place quite like it. They have no idea. You lift your hand to the scene.
They have no idea.
You have no idea. How to comb out the tangles,
shake off the thrall, the yawning grey
that stuns every cell and weighs you down so much like Sleeping Beauty that you cannot fathom
a release from it, a turning not of season but of yourself, away from here,
far away before spring comes.