Monday, April 1, 2013
mud (a poem)
I can't decide if my mood is contingent
on the weather, or if Mother Nature knows how
to mourn with those that mourn.
The ravens hover precariously over me outside,
wobbling like kites in uncertain wind.
Ravens shouldn't wobble,
ask Edgar Allen Poe.
My eyes burn and fidget and then leak
as big fat raindrops fall from the sky.
Then a drop for every heartbeat.
Then a drop for every thought.
Today I am as 'bright and cheery'
as the mass of dark, bruised clouds above me.
My heart, folding back up into itself, pumps
from its chambers and hoses
as thick as the mud in the driveway
my car will be stuck in tomorrow.
i am cold
if you give me a hand or a foot,
i will hesitate before i give it back.