Dear God the day is grey. My house
is not in order. Lord, the dust
sifts through my rooms and with my fear,
I sweep mortality, outwear
my brooms, but not this leaning floor
which lasts and groans. I, walking here,
still loathe the labors I would love
and hate the self I cannot move.
And God, I know the unshined boards,
the flaking ceiling, various stains
that mottle these distempered goods,
the greasy cloths, the jagged tins,
the dog that paws the garbage cans.
I know what laborings, love, and pains,
my blood would will, yet will not give:
the knot of hair that clogs the drains
clots in my throat. My dyings thrive.
The refuse, Lord, that I put out
burns in vast pits incessantly.
All piecemeal deaths, trash, undevout
and sullen sacrifice, to thee.
I’ve always resonated with the heaviness of this poem and on dark, rainy days (such as today), I find myself whispering those first lines – “Dear God the day is grey. My house is not in order.”
Lest you think I’m about to take a couple of ambien and go to sleep for the rest of the day, fear not. I will be here waiting for the rain to stop and the sky to clear.
Apparently Pickles is in a similar mood.