The Sun Always Wins
The fog is mostly in your head. Fuzzy white stuff
in the way of color and clarity,
an emotional hangover
that starts your day.
Silhouettes, a little faint, remind you of the lines
of love, of understanding, remind you
of bones, the things that knit you together
and hold you while the flesh disintegrates
like a bad movie. Before technicolor.
or so far after it that someone thinks it is camp,
when what it is is a bad memory, a childhood dream
and you are left with the mystery of a morning
from another time, a ghost come to visit.
But not so much for haunting. For tea perhaps,
breakfast together, a chance to talk
of shared memories and discover just how differently
you each see them.
Age has its benefits. Memory and muscles
are not all that fades. So does fear, So does bitterness.
Leaving room for the better things, the more colorful ones,
Even if you have to wait some mornings for the fog to lift.
You sip your tea. Let the pain wander through you.
Willing to feel it without fretting. Able to hurt without fear
it will last past a predetermined time. One you know well.
Able to know, even in the mist, that the sun always wins.
About this poem
An emotional hangover spilled into print. A poem about fog, demons, the value of breakfast. Poetry is never about one thing. I hope you find yours in this one.