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
................................................
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
....................................................
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