the story of sadness
won’t be told in a rush–
it will dawdle, perambulate
linger like snow in shade.
the story of sadness will fade and then rise
in sinuous, psalmic morning, an
incessant crescendo undone by stillness,
each syllable unseen, ultraviolet, indelible.
on the polyglot’s tongue this story shall stain.
this story of sadness
is the story of all sadness,
of quotidian nuance, of
quiet enrapture, the absence of calm, of
wellness and laughter,
our peace is a metaphor for life ever after;
the tempest is but an abundance of rain.