Under the Weather
Rained on or snowed in,
the self backed into a corner
by illness, fatigue.
Unbidden, dominant,
sickness does creep in
like the weather.
Weight and wetness
perch on the shoulder,
drag soggy fingers
over your temples
and throat. We recede,
retreat. The body is full
of rooms, pockets
you can collapse into
to convalesce like country
homes or sea air.
See how easily our
constitutions swoon.
I have a sore throat and a cold right now, a minor irritation more than debilitating, though I missed a few hours of work this week. I can readily identify with this poem. When illness comes, like the weather, we don't have any choice in it.
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