Bearable
On Monday,
when the rain drums down,
I want a drink.
A bit of gold at my table.
Flowers in a vase.
Lace and white
as good as salt.
The sweet smell of cider
sweating in the sun.
Laughter everywhere.
The sight of a new lover
at my door
and stars,
oh so many stars.
I do not want these things
as a bird would want a worm,
or as a dog desires a bone,
but rather as a tree reaches for light.
These are not luxuries,
I tell you,
but necessities,
in this
black
cold
world
to make the unbearable,
bearable.
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