An indoors kind of day;
intermittent rain, enough to say “stop”, “go”, “no, stops again”
Murakami wrote for us to read, and I read:
No confusion, no despair, no regrets.
No metaphysical doubt, no moral complications.
But I am not a spider.

The wind, THAT wind, that trashes about before the pour
and asks for nothing more than a little consideration,
it brings an interruption to weigh up
what was, what is, and what it may be.
And yet, the message may be of loss or continuum,
one or the other must be denial.

It would be acceptable if sometime before soon,
without predictions or forecasts,
spontaneity could dictate the terms
and we could all, hand in hand, pretend to understand.
But time has seen to that, and needing no permission
brings forth another night.