Sometimes the air is still;
The light loses its clarity.
This is such a day: immovable.
It slouches; it is lazy and petulant,
And ripe with indifference.
Today it calls and calls.
We are veined wet fallen leaves;
We are rills of loss and regret
And we can not explain:
It is a sense of loss,
Of not belonging, of never –
Of being the outsider. Looking in.
Walks offer no cure, nor kind wishes:
It is set deep, beyond the eyes,
And it has learned to burrow.
Sometimes when the rain comes,
It washes in joy and laughter;
Sometimes it builds a slurry,
And it clings to thought and life.
To pull us ever further