Low Light

Gray skies.

For days.

In a place known for sun.

My psyche collapses,

Folds in on itself,

Searching for meaning

In a wet torrent,

Of spring green,

Muted by the rains.

Washed out by the clouds.

Covered in what I know is life giving moisture.

The rational brain can reason.

Water in the west

When it comes

Is good.

But underneath,

The mental structure

Is deluged,

A soggy mess.

Waiting for a reprieve.

A renting of the thick low ceiling,

Sealing off the sky.

A warming from the goddess

Of golden light.

Flowers buoyed by sun,

Not bent by rain.

Maybe in June.

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