The Day After

After a sleeples night
I turn on the radio. I fear
we're facing a long winter.
The sky is low and heavy.

It is still raining. On the deck
a bench, freshly painted blue,
the only bright sight
in a dismal garden.

Yesterday, election day was bright
and alive the sun coloring the
Autumn leaves. Even the dead ones,
clinging to a branch, shimmered

in the sunlight. Two migrating bluebirds—
I usually see them in the a Spring—
visited, dancing from limb to twig.
If they were an omen, I missed it.

After a morning spent moping
I drive to the Y, passing a car
stranded in a ditch, having
skidded on wet leaves.

In the pool, I struggle to do my
usual laps. In the shallow end
children play, jump in and out,
screaming their heads off,
as if there is no tomorrow.

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Copyright 2017© by Peter D. Goodwin