it’s overcast in Depression Valley.
an overhang of overweight clouds,
condensing within the soft folds of the psyche,
blocking the sun;
blocking the prospect of better or beyond.
abnormally swollen and pregnant —
they should burst and hail any moment
but today they are dumb, stagnant.
the resident automaton,
he pushes on
makes plans, with buds
feeds ducks, with nuts
drinks in Beethoven sonatas from the page —
the late ones deliciously well-aged.
but it’s just so mountainous.
he wears a joyless countenance
he bears the hopeless knowledge:
there’s no climbing out from Depression Valley.
a dear friend gently asks:
why not, automaton, why?
why, why, why:
is there a why to weather?
there is no cause, no invent.
in Depression Valley
there is a moratorium
the surrounding mountains are frozen, lush.
gently, with ne’er a rush,
they fold him into their ridges.
he gradually becomes the weather, joins
the chorus of mutes, eternally
cast over Depression Valley.