Inclement Shades of Weather
    Good morning heartache, sit down.
                                              —Billie Holiday

As if with intention, the rain navigates
the day, and the wind is a fickle sailor
with an upturned collar
riding the sea toward nowhere
that is home. A forecast of inclements
and our moods attract
their opposites, the way the mirror
throws back the inverse of the room.
            Monday morning crawl
to medicine chests of resident labels
freeloading to dissuade
our tireless blues. The comfortable sadness
of never having an occasion to dress.
An idle mind is the devil's sweatshop.
And this sadness, (even if we know not what)
speaks to the lowest bellow of loss,
like a mudslide in the groin.
We've already called upon
all of our expressions—what were already the fallen
bridges of disused wisdom.
            All the loneliest of folks
gather at coffee-shop counters (not booths),
strangers detained by the rain
(clanking cups), waiting
for a jailhouse conversion.
So which leap of faith becomes
our cross to bear? All told, there is a dalliance
in the heart—(an inside day of soup and board games).
Lost to the finale of wind,
home-bound sailor and the gloved farewell
that never gets said in time.

Copyright © 2009 Cynthia Atkins All rights reserved
from Psyche's Weathers
Custom Words
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission