Moody Days, a poem.

Buried behind the clouds,
as I am buried in blankets,
humidity runs high and the daylight
stays muted even with the rising of the sun.
These are the moody days.
When the Earth hasn’t figured out
if it is waking up today. A burst
of depression covers the fields,
the forests, the lakes, and I emerge
from my bed as if in dream state
painted in blues and grays matching
the picture outside of my window.
These are the moody days.
These are the soft days.

These are the days we contemplate
former lovers, past indiscretions, soak
in ceramic tubs filled with bubbles, painting
our fingernails pink to find a spark.
The Saturday mornings that never end.
These are the moody days.
The days of lost loves, memories,
bagels with cream cheese, and
forgotten dreams.