It pours in sheets.
The neighbour children are squealing.
It pours in sheets
that obscure their little dance, when they steal drops forbidden,
for fear of illness,
and consequently missing
a day at school, a test, a rank, an academic title, a career, a salary, marriage, fulfilment.
The windows busy themselves – their banging business.
So many sounds to remind me I miss voices.
and that I tire of my own, sounding in my head – loud, loud. And louder.
Atwood’s landscapes revisited – fallen logs, brambles, kitchen knives.
And feet under chairs traveling
round and round, in circles.
An urge to grab life with both hands,
Malnutrition, fatigue, burnout
and the dreaded demise of patience.