Throw off the wet gloves
After Anne Sexton’s Consorting With Angels
I was tired of the early mornings
I was tired of the computer screen
I was sick of the drive around the gyratory
Day after day, after day
Meaningless – days sliding by
And I said to myself
Where is the meaning in my stale existence?
And the answer came – “look up”.
And as I looked up, snow fell like angel feathers
And a voice seemed to say
When the snow falls it’s a game, a full stop.
A clean slate as the Symbolists say
It’s fun, let go of troubles
Cares gone to the drifts of snow
Climb inside joy
Igloo up misery and distain
Throw off the wet gloves of being a wet blanket,