How separate we are
under our black umbrellas—dark
planets in our own small orbits,
hiding from this wet assault
of weather as if water
would violate the skin,
as if these raised silk canopies
could protect us
from whatever is coming next—
December with its white
enamel surfaces; the numbing
silences of winter.
From above we must look
like a family of bats—
ribbed wings spread
against the rain,
swooping towards any
makeshift shelter.
I heard this on The Writer's Almanac this morning...couldn't have fit my mood more. Unreal. I swear...the universe told me to turn o the radio.
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