Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Under the Weather

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.

1 comment

  1. 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.


The Storialist. All rights reserved. © Maira Gall.