Many days of the year it rains,
each day thereafter, the same, the same, the same.
Dark clouds looming, glooming overhead,
all thoughts consuming, all the while, wishing only to leave my bed.
All that’s right feels wrong:
nails on a chalk board; the most dreadful song.
Hands ever turning around the face of the clock,
the beat of a heart, the measure of time, wishing it would stop.
Where is that wind that blows,
that moves the sun across the skies,
that clears away the shadows
like cobwebs from my mind?