Downcast Downpour Days

when you are

withering

from the inside,

who holds you?

is it the polar easterlies,

that beat down your body

thread by thread—

take your flesh like shylock?

the cracks—

they are only visible

if you look

deep

enough.

then the snow chill

freezes it back.

and you are

not the same.

your blood—

it does not carry

the warmth

it once did.

your fingers

cannot curl

around the coffee cup

and remember

how care

felt.

they speak

of therapy.

they say:

it heals the soul.

have you

tried it?

soul-baring

to the bone—

and nothing

to cover

up with.

still no kindling

to light up

your somas.

but you go on.

and on.

because you are:

brave.

strong.

lonely.

cold.

you walk

down and up

for that

sunrise—

but find

you are mistaken.

the world remains

cloaked.

the darkness—

it mystifies.

this anasuya

cannot

make the sun rise,

though she

had promised

the world.

she is

not

the reincarnation.

she was

merely human.

you may call her

neither

now.

her last hope

lies westward—

the winter westerlies

to bring in

life,

again.

Hope