I understand
how joy smells like rain,
how fermented flowers
rot into perfume,
how laughter is most rich
when there are tears
but today
even joy feels out of reach,
a bar raised too high,
a shelf beyond my outstretched arms.
Today the threads entwine
worn out,
nubby, frayed beyond repair;
stark sky a dull cloth
behind the painted trees on stage,
wrinkled angels staggering,
unseen disequilibrium causing nausea
offset by ginger tea;
joy a shrill lie,
beauty a muffled truth.