notes for wednesday’s child

Her woe is a workaday thing,
Not the product of catastrophic illness
Or some wanton random tragedy; Continue reading “notes for wednesday’s child”

A Variation Upon Kate Copeland’s “All the water in the world”

At the end, there is only water;
Not the healing drizzle some farmer,
Grimly surveying yet one more orange horizon,
Seeks for fields laid to waste
Under a pestilential sun,
But a thing without nuance, without proportion
With no sense of just-so,
Simply a malevolent totality leaving no room for something else.
One can suppose that there will be blue skies,
A parting of the clouds, the gaiety of picnics,
The simple beauty of a stroll with one loved who loves in return
All ascribed to the mathematical certainty
That some balance, some dry-bulb aridity ,
Shall balance the scales, shall provide equanimity
But such notions seem like a mockery of logic,
An outcome reserved for a world
Where than can be a this or that,
For here there is only the water,
Indefatigable, relentless, remorseless.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Ms. Copeland’s original is considerable writing; she is obviously blameless for the shortcomings in the piece.