Throw off the Wet Gloves After Anne Sextons - 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 ‘Be playful’ 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 disdain Throw off the wet gloves of being a wet blanket, Live.