my mood and whims
long ago, I was high up a hollow in the mountains,
my spirit as bright as the sun knifing through the trees,
clouds moved in, the day and my mood darkened,
I wrote of being subject to “the whim of drifting clouds,”
my mood is often like that:
a basic default position of bright optimism,
easily shifted into darkening worry,
it’s as if there’s a balance within me
that needs only the slightest shift of weight
to teeter me one way or the other,
I wonder if others are as mercurial as I,
and, if so, if they deny such emotionality
with the grey inertia of denial.
by Henry H. Walker
July 11, ‘16
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