⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem V
The weather didn’t help.
Not with mood,
not with meaning,
not with anything, really.
The rain arrived first –
not dramatic,
not cleansing,
not trying to set a scene,
just wet.
It slid down the window
like someone too tired
to knock.
The wind followed,
shoving a recycling bin
into the street
with the bored persistence
of a cashier on hour nine.
The sun tried once,
leaning through the clouds
with a weak, apologetic glow,
then gave up
and went back to wherever
it keeps its better days.
Nothing outside
matched anything inside.
No metaphors,
no parallels,
no poetic weather report
to explain the morning.
Just a sky
that refused to participate,
a sidewalk
that didn’t care who stepped on it,
and a day
that wasn’t setting any mood
for anyone.
Which, honestly,
felt about right.