The White Day

Judging by the way the weather turned-

By rising mist and flaking sun,

By bloody clouds shouting at all to run,

By rushed cars and blaring streets,

By a thousand rushed heartbeats,

By indolent winds picking up their speed;

A fine white day had begun.

 

Judging by the way the weather’s crowd cheered-

The graying sky pushing them down to the earth,

They pelted on rooftops and were meant to be heard,

By a whimpering dog crying for his master’s return,

And morose children longing for the summer sun,

It was uncanny for it to be so in April month;

A rare white day was earned.

 

Judging by the way the housewife shrieked-

The clothesline drenching with alarming speed,

The children muddying without a heed,

The master soothing the dog and not her,

And the blare of the streets throwing the neighbor,

From his solitary reflections on existential wonder;

A noisy white day was gleaned.

 

Judging by the way the master escaped his penance-

From a scorned woman who still got no chance,

Because the children won’t relent their dance,

Of merry woodland creatures and sprites,

Of kings and queens and damsels and knights,

Then the clouds relented their hold on light;

The white day was the neighbor’s trance.

 

Judging by the way the weather turned-

And how the neighbor mystically learned,

That the noise of life is shrouded by the sun,

Yet it inevitably comes forth,

When white days descend on our comfort,

And become the harbinger of discord;

They are something we can ill-afford,

Our semi-content days wish to see no dearth,

And our routined lives wish to pass the earth,

In dull, unsurprised candor.

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