The Weather’s Walk

Ungainly, the weather’s walk.
Swaying, stumbling, fumbling
with its burden of wet mist
and mumbling somewhat coherently
the gray words to a gray poem.

We wonder whether or not
the weather takes the long way home,
the kind of wonder that weighs
sufficiently upon the brain.
The window which overlooks the lane
cannot see the lane beneath its cover of gray,
nor feel the thin fingers of Day
reaching to caress its panes.

We feel in fragments as the weather strains
up the way and through the way,
fragments of feelings we can no longer name.

Ungainly, the weather’s walk.
Tripping, tumbling, bumbling
through the foreground spilling
the gray words to a gray poem
along the way, fragments of feelings
with which we fashion ourselves.

-r. miller

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