5.11.13 If He Was A Weeping Man

If he was a weeping man , he would have wept;

come to find himself seated heavily upon

one worn village stoop

His hoarded sorrow tossed across shoulders

of streaming passerbys, now weighted, now unawares

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How is it grief can be stumbled upon, then

willingly imbibed in some darkening gloom -

then pressed inside, the cork twisted

this way and that, shut up tight

And how can it be that even those 

who have sat with gradient loss

and struggled with its inadvertent weight 

are so unable to tender another's ?

………………………………………………

So, here he sits, hours passing

Grief finally making its circuitous path

untangling each sweet

remnant of his heart

Far above, massive clouds

heave all of their violet burden,

unbidden, across wind fraught  skies

Soon enough to give way

and ,with inevitability, rain

falls, inviolate, to the

parched, broad lands below

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And too, what was past and harrowing now does

descend, his face registering surprise, the slow

torrent parrying down his cheeks

arrant weight gone, obviant gaze stricken

instead with the honesty of grief

The story ends; the refrain lingers

your vision caught glancing out your back window

uneasily checking , sudden, uncertain,

for here lie your own skies

Arrant- blatant, notorious

Obviant- obvious but sarcastic at an unclear level