Foggy Weather

Sitting in a quiet kitchen,
pale lemon on a sunny day,
but on this day
the mountains wear mist.

A shroud of fog and a scent
of cinnamon are my companions.
The rain raineth
and the wind bloweth.

The weather
is just another thing
we can’t change in this year
of posturing and lies.

In the face of bad politics
and puzzling weather,
Will poetry die?
I think not.

I read that poetry
is not the language
we live in; it is
the language of change.

It allows us to dwell
in the truth of humanity,
to break through the rubbish
and the rain.

Poetry turns these glum walls
back to their lemony sheen
and into a haven of cinnamon rolls
and a cup of a robust blend.

4 thoughts on “Foggy Weather

  1. “Poetry turns these glum walls
back to their lemony sheen
and into a haven of cinnamon rolls
and a cup of a robust blend.”

    Sarah,

    Why you’ve written a sermon and transformed my own glum heart!

    Deb

  2. BoardFlak

    There will always be poets because there will always be a need for poets to paint the world in the colors it should have always had.

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