Happiness

There's the wind in my hair.
It's whispering in last year's withered leaves
and sighing down those endless, barren fields,
inconsequentially muttering
of all that was but will not be again,
of all that might have been
but for the question left unspoken
when the crucial time was there...
the wind's sad voice is whispering in my hair.

The sun comes out a while.
It's blinking through a rift up in the clouds
and winking at the people still outside,
caressing unexpectedly -
not long enough to thaw their cold, drawn faces,
not long enough for warmth
but just a taste of what could be,
an uncertain, fleeting smile...
It's only out for far too short a while.

Slate rainclouds in the sky;
a steady downpour splattering the tiles
and softly running down my streaming face;
it's not malignant, pattering
about the gap between ideal and truth,
about the cold of night
and all those things I'll never know
and I hope I will not cry...
The chilling clouds are blocking up my sky.