For Verity

When the depression comes,

(sweeping away the colors,
absorbing all the light,
stilling the quick movements)

call me. Don't sit in silence,

gritting your teeth, gripping your pen,
scraping its point across the paper.
You hold the pen in a clenched fist,

when the depression sweeps your words away
Don't sit in the cold silence

as the people pass in and out,
and never speak your name.

Don't be the only still stone

in a world of leaves flying on the wind
(They start to fall, but they never really land)

when the depression comes
Don't let it sweep over you.

I know, it comes like the cold tide of a grey ocean.
I know, it comes faster than you could ever expect,

sweeping around your bare ankles, swirling the gritty sand.
But don't just stand there,

when the depression comes (cold)
and the wind sweeps in (chilling),

don't stand there (shivering and soaked)--Move, climb:

There is a solid place where you can sit,
and watch the world change:

the falling leaves, the inexorable ocean
and the wind will roar around you

but you'll be on dry ground

When the depression comes: call me.
I will sweep the falling leaves

away.

[I wrote this during my free-writing class. But it was always for you.]