With one hand I sip tea
and the other one waves.
Sees eye to eye
a muse drenched in poetry.
Then we talk, leaning
towards each other.
And in the rainy chatter that ensues
there is a mention of sadness.
A drifting cloud, with disheveled hair
passes by our table as gloom.
Sorrows form a sludge: dark and distressing
and snakes go about, guarding
the hidden routes to happiness.
I brush off all this aside.
This regular depression talk.
There is no point in recounting
darker side in darkness.
There is light in the eyes I say
Light of yesterday, it might be.
But has its reflection on today.
I plead the tenacious one to look at
the incidents gone unrecorded.
There is happiness in motes
like the burning stars in an endless dark.
All this yapping I offer
to a sadness that has
a lot of catching up to do.