Forecasts

The cold outside is seeping into me
By slow degrees I sink into myself
And weary of the world's extremity
Won't move. I see a book up on the shelf
And think it too much effort to extend
My leaden arm up to its promised weight;
I think I used to think I could depend
On my exuberance to heal my state,
But now I know - dull certainty - that I
Will not rise up, whatever is the cause;
I blame it on the boredom in the sky
And how it hammers home to me my flaws.
Perhaps the sky will change, but ere it does
I fear I will not be as I once was.