There’s a storm Mama.
I cannot see through the rain.
Just human shapes walking.
Like people in a hall of mirrors
I have the blues Mama
But worse the blues are dark grey.
I know she’s out there
Walking with people we don’t know.
I can hear her laughter
The chinking of her wine glass.
But I can’t see her Mama.
The rain falls too hard.
I am too used
to her being there Mama.
Warming the house the gardens.
I became accustomed to
the green forest
and snow capped mountain’s.
Happiness was a habit
of my heart Mama.
But now the rain
This endless rain.