Depression to me is a quiet house.
It is held in a shadow box, behind a thick pane of crystal glass.
Where if you can peer inside, you will see that there are always dishes in the sink,
and a persistent steady drip from the bathroom faucet.
The swing set out back rocks gently.
Every season it collects more rust on the chain.
The spruce tree out front stands still
even during a front’s strong winds.
Large limbs have grown strong to carry
the weight from its own past of burden.
But to me this depression, this quiet house, is beautiful.
Even waking to the heavy cold that I may feel in my bones is beautiful.
No, it is not the warm caress of a gentle arm
draped over my side, hand held in hand throughout the night,
but it is a child I carry with me from ages,
11, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 19, 22, now almost 24.
I love this child, still, despite its wear on my body
And I choose to stay in this house, despite its toxicity to my mind
I will not move from this house,
because of all the cherished memories
Although they may haunt me
They too are a part of my day and dream
My tongue and pen
My hand and heart
And if you cannot understand why I still stand with this child
Why I Still stay with this house
Then what is beauty, really?
Is beauty not found in the coal and in the mountain
Is beauty not found in the hawk and in the rabbit
Where there is water there is a spring,
and there is a source to its beauty.