winter quarter prose poetry

Just like its season, the winter quarter of the academic year stretches long and cold, a bleak foreshadowing of years of toil to come.

It is said that this will pass. Yet it will certainly come again. Same time next year. Same cold car in the mornings. Same stuffy noses. Same. Same. Same.

My frozen toes groan the melancholy of my never ending nineteen graduate credits.

Oh woe.