Grey insistent rain
is falling on my world.
Sad shriveling old asphalt
shrugs off abandonment
and lies stoic in the cold and wet.
Looking out my window
I see people pass splashing.
Shall I put on my 'winter weeds'
and go amongst them unknown?
Then, as the rain pelts my body,
I can touch my chest and whisper,
"Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa."*
But I am not washed clean.
I walk a lonely mile into the wind.
I see mud, and stark branches
and metallic traffic blurring by
and in my commonness I am invisible.
Suddenly a sob bursts from me
from the depths of my longing
and I look around to be sure no one heard.
But if they did, there's no sign.
I walk on to a park close to my home
and stand against a tall majestic tree.
Its branches enfold me
and keep me from the rain.
The roots are so very deep.
I feel my sadness dwindle to the ground
and I am weak, but my heart's less torn.
The storm inside me, like the storm outside has quelled.
Distracted and confused I make my way home.
I sleep to dream of some fabled sun.
Some other world, some other dimension.
Some other me.
*More than 50 years ago Catholics were expected to recite the confession of sins, “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”
The English translation now asks them to admit their sins by saying, “My fault, my fault, my most grievous fault,” while softly striking their chests with their fists.
'Winter weeds'. I am doing a play on words of the expression 'Widows weeds' which was the mourning clothes a widow would wear for the better part of a year after her spouse's death. I think winter is almost as hard to take when it rains incessantly here on the coast and so ironically say 'winter weeds' for rainwear.