Ditch

I've spent the week in a ditch.
An underground ditch.
D
e
e
p
.
Submerged and marinating
in surface runoff --
Contaminated with equal parts
avoidance,
  dread,
       depression.

A lot of changes are on the horizon again.
A lot of my time is going to spent alonely again.
A lot of fear is flooding my eyes again.

But there are those moments,
whentheditchbecomestoostifling
(even for me),
and I s n e a k to the surface for ^AIR.

The Things That Make Me Smile

wave 'hallo,' gaily, but quietly,

Politely disregarding tear-stained cheeks.

And then littlest Thing gently takes my hand,

looking up at me with wide eyes and a curious grin,

and leads me towards a brief encounter with a Smile.

Upon instinct I resist --

(the black ditch makes light white hot)

but its grip is strong.

Attention diverted,

the miasma begins to d i   s   s    i     p      a       t        e,

floating away like a forgotten ^balloon.

With that, the other Things run over to me,

hugging me and reminding me,

while Learning tips its top-hat to me and winks.

A lot of opportunities are on the horizon again.
A lot of my time is going to be all mine again.
A lot of sanguinity is bubbling up inside me again.

As the Things That Make Me Smile celebrate,
I look over at the manhole cover,
knowing that I'll be back _down there soon.

But the marinade will be less potent,
the ditch less deep, each time,
until, one day, I simply forget to return.