It keeps raining
cold gray skies with window wipers that squeak
because it is not raining enough
It would be nice
if it would just pour and the sky would empty
and we could move on.
But instead I deal with this slow trickle
Vivaldi's Seasons plays for my two-year-old
daughter, as she tilts her head
to see a visual interpretation on a DVD.
A golden retriever plays in autumn leaves,
a fall-covered mountain passes by quickly,
as she tilts her head.
She holds her blanket that she has had since birth and she is calm -
looks reflective to me.
And I wonder if she
Sunlight streams across my keyboard through the blinds behind me,
from the sun outside.
unlike the TV, where it is Fall, out there,
it looks like Spring,
and I hope it is,
(I am reflective too, reflecting on:)
We could both use a little bit of spring.
Like an image tattooed on the sky
it's public record
tell the untruths
Like an image
a sunflower that browned
falling to the earth below
You have lost everything
only your untruths remain
tattooed on the sky
The rain continues on without stopping
Our white plastic balcony chairs are wet.
I sit on one anyways.
I smoke a cigarette long and hard,
as I miss him.
Everything is wet and the rain
Night comes early to one who has been too long
in the day. One who walks and walks like a worrier, like a hummingbird,
hum hum, worry, worry,
One who sees tomorrow only in possibilities
of black and gray,
and sadness, seagulls have become more plentiful straying
Far from the ocean, you can now find them anywhere
digging through trash. They are vultures. She is a vulture onto herself
seeing everyone, everything, as feeding on her.