The black clouds near,
Rapidly rolling their convolutions.
A gust of wind bends the poplars,
& at once comes the rain,
Pattering down on winter leaves.
Puddles of water running over the gravel
Carry off a scattering of yellow leaves.
Everything seems wrapped
In a drifting darkness.
The weather sinks deep in my soul—
Somberly melancholic, numbly despairing—
I sit by the window,
& stare with brooding eyes.
Afterwards, the sun comes out,
Lightens my little room
Like a golden bed lamp, with soft touch,
& the sky turns white as porcelain again.
The ducks quack,
Sparrows shake their wings,
& once more it is warm.
The bedlam that broke awhile
Starts to cease, & now
Lulled by the brightness of the sun,
Smothered by it, I sink again
In a state of gloom,
Ruminating over my stark & bereft