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.

-Anne Halley

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.