Cloudy
Days
A
dome is over my home
Hovering
just above the tree line
I
sometimes feel trapped
Not wanting
to be under it
As it
shatters down as spiky shards
Cloud-shards
stabbing me
The pain
is unbearable
I
want to see open sky
And know
warmth
Other
days, the soft white-gray
While
I see nothing,
I do
feel cozy, snug
Huddling
deeper into my blankets
Imagining
far away green hills
A home
in spring
With
the wet coming down outside
That
washes everything
From
time and grief
My
childhood home
Filled
with music
The voice
floating from the kitchen
My mother’s
clear soprano
And the
distinct smell of cinnamon
Inviting
me to taste and see
All that
is good
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