A beautiful break
in the clouds,
and the sun
pokes through,
hiding
in the fringes:
a silver shock of light.
My heart is lifted,
slightly.
If winter is never going to show
then perhaps
it is not too early
to start dreaming
of spring.
I look up
into the glow
and I think
maybe it’s time.
The clouds
are moving in
and your rain
will come.
The masses
will cry out
“Injustice!”
and sob
over a lost
summer.
I will not.
I welcome change.
I always have.
It has forever
happened
to me:
rarely
by me.
So,
I am used
to it.
This morning was foggy; dense, heavy and laying in layers. It functioned like a lens and broke the rising sun in two parts: one the explosive light of the sun and the other the simple image of the sun as a disc, like one sees during an eclipse. It was odd. The raging of the sun and the simple beauty separated from each other. Sometimes I can see myself in this way: two halves. The unfocused chaos of a life in progress and the simple visage of the man himself riding that chaotic wave. I too am raging.
Ink (flows, stains). 