Some Days are Heavier

Some Days are Heavier

(“When someone is weak, then I feel weak too; when someone is led into sin, I am filled with distress.” 2 Corinthians 11:29)

Some days are heavier, the gravity pushes down like a cloud
full of gravel; while just a step and a half over the children twirl
like cottonwood dancing on the breeze. There is little to be said
about geography, myopathy; it is simply the weather that pushed
you around and left an opening in its soul full of dandelions and
dragonflies,
while you drag your disguise under the hailstones you nope no one notices.

But I see. Or at least discern the evidence. A lovely white porch
with
elder limbs for shade and the next day spitballs from the sky
shredded the lanai. Leaves were pureed, paint was splayed with
chips of white and green the jigsaw pieces of an infinite puzzle
or remains. You remembered why you nearly decided it
was a bad idea to put the glass table outside.

Some had insurance. Some had luck. Some discerned the future.
But you, you must have been on the receiving end of judgment
for hail so large to hover so long over a target so precise as
the white porch where people imagined (mostly the uninvited)
your adolescent raucous.

We sat outside on spotted plastic, shared a sigh and a drink,
and though the air was still heavy as iron, the hand of a friend
was better
than the doctrines of neighbors about
the hand of god.