so sensitive even the light burns

the mondays and the jekyll and hyde of the sun and the gloom the fog and the clear the snow and the wind against the still and the silent

there are things to be done but they are just mountains not words not clay malleable in my hands

i will be happy when the sounds are in my mouth
i will be happy when the grass is green
i will be happy when he is with me beside
i will be happy when this is an aside, the footnote to a much longer piece

there is no such thing as happy when