for Chloe Viner Collins
Sometimes the day begins
in a bloom of gray: a static ceiling of clouds,
our minds too paralyzed to imagine the sun.
Not one colorful bird flies past the window,
none pierce the silence with a song.
We're sunk then, you and I,
like stones at the bottom of a stream.
Melancholia dances about us, grabs us
by the hair, grins in our faces.
Tomorrow he may be gone.
And then again, maybe not.