Gray

[rejectomorph]

I had hoped to see a bit of sunlight today, but though the rain has gone, it has left the damp and the clouds behind. Open fields are barely brighter than the woods, few birds are about, and no insects but the ants who have invaded the house. All the wet winter they crept in, avoiding the saturated soil, and now they are back. I'd rather see butterflies fluttering among sunlit flowers, but today will not be the day for that. A few blossoms, now faded pink, cling to the dogwood, but more are scattered on the ground. Where the water has run down the gutter there are yellow swirls and deltas of pine pollen. A patch of oxalis flaunts bright white flowers, but is too small and sparse to brighten the day. The last cat mopes on the couch, unwilling to go out into the cold. I sit here remembering gray days I have enjoyed. This is not one of them.

Comments

[literaryartist.livejournal.com]

This is one of the finest depictions of gloom I have read, each sentence containing the abstraction, the whole paragraph atremble with mellow despondency. Nevertheless, I hope tomorrow is brighter.