Melancholia sets in like rheumatism,
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paralyzing the joints.
A joint would be nice.
The paralysis then would be but self-induced.
For months and months weíve watched the skies and hoped for just a spot of rain.
Now farmers rejoice but I am blue with dreariness
and I canít get my bones to be glad.
It doesnít smell clean, this dreary rainfall that continues and continues.
It is muddy and heavy hearted
Pouring down and down
Pooling in the crannies of the driveway
Puddling in the untended field.
The kitchen floor looks as desperate as I feel
and Iím not sure if the whole earth smells like a wet dog.
Or is it just my world?