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Bog

There are days when
you just cannot be happy.

When you cannot dredge
a new smile up out of the deep
silty mires of your soul.
When you cannot spoon
up from the muck
the peat-bog bones of
your laughs for the people
in your life who would hear them.

Days like this may bury you
without warning, like mudslides,
promises, like sinkholes,
or they may creep after you,
encroaching wet marshes
you may be able to keep
one step ahead of, for a while,
before they swallow your ankles
and pull you down.

When these days come for you,
I hope you will remember this:
the sun dries the mud,
and the rain washes it away.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
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