joy is supposed to arrive in the morning
it’s Sunday and it’s morning and looking around
I do see a glimpse
green and then there’s the rain drops
left on the surfaces of nature and structures
Sunday to Sunday and it’s been more than
a week, measured by my own ruler
which is, hello, a mistake

refusal 
     death 
           an announcement
all the things which come upon one who simply tries to be
not all my doing but could be my undoing
and some is, completely mine to claim

yet so is the joy
mine for the taking which seems so foreign
I don’t generally afford myself that grace
why though if no one can rightly deny me
just like no one said they will not allow the rain
how ridiculous to try and change what’s promised
     even hoped for