Snow swirled, wind moaned, skies turned dark,
then lightened, sun shone, snow melted,
water steamed and cast little rainbows,
but moments later, all turned black again.
The cycle turned, three times snowing,
twice sunny, on and off throughout the day.

It was a relief when night fell–
to lose the sight of such extremes,
of sunny, black, sunny again,
exhausting to endure. Just as I’d
gotten used to one, the other’d come
rushing in to supplant it, turn and turn about.

At least in darkness the senses are less
overwhelmed, knowledge more certain.
The windows may rattle, or not–
but at least it’s one consistent view.
The the unlit pink sky, presaging snow,
is not far from simple black.

It’s not that I prefer nighttime, you must
try to understand. It’s that the change
from light to dark in the blink of an eye
is too much too soon to safely take in.
Were it sunny to overcast, or light to dusk—
I could bear it better, but not the extremes.

So when you’re perplexed why I’m
willing to abide an inner dusk,
shading to mental nighttime, please know
it’s not a preference for depression, but
rather the fear of the fall from a greater height.
The slow slide from a lower height is smoother.

Of course I’ve a preference for daylight.  But
I like it in measured doses, eight hours or ten,
a sustained release of happiness when I can
produce, relax, and predict better things to come.
Think about it like a roller coaster.
Once in a while, the speeding descent from

crest to trough is thrilling. But if you had
to ride the rollercoaster all day, you’d agree
the repetition makes you sick, that
you, too, had lost the sense of up from down.
You too would grip tight the safety bars,
close your eyes, and pray for the end, any end.