With everything going on this month, something had to give and unfortunately it turned out to be my poetry. I was down but not done.

Today’s poem is based ever, ever so loosely on Mary Oliver’s The Sun.

 Wounds

 Yesterday promised rain.
It never came.
 Instead sunshine played
across finger-tipped willow leaves
like a Monet
weaving out of focus.
 I needed rain,
the comfort of gray
to shield my sadness,
to lick invisible wounds.
 Sunshine’s glare proved formidable
as the old nun in third grade
whose narrowed eyes forced progress
through fear of disapproval.

Sascha Darlington