Poetry Journal [4]

a good day
Meah Enya Brooks

It was a day when rain felt
like a second morning shower,
and the bitter cold
was welcomed by a half-moon smile
and a bobble hat.
It was a day when nothing really
mattered, or nothing seemed to anyhow,
nothing at all, except maybe
the proximity of uncertainty;
the proximity of realizing
it may not stay like this for much longer.
Nothing can be assured
or assumed,
only entailed
and unravelled
bit by bit.
However, it continued to be
a day when it felt acceptable
to peer your head out of your familiar shell,
just enough to absorb the world
around you
without feeling under threat by it.
It was a day when
your personality wasn’t muffled
by irrational apprehensions and fears.
It was a good day,
and it blurred into another
as days often do.