At the end of May in 2017 you will
have survived much worse than this.
You will wake
and love the warm weather
your allergies assert themselves,
a headache is nothing as a price of happiness.
You will boil water to mix with honey and lemon.
Inhaling the aroma,
you will just begin to heartily agree with your record player
that yes, only the good die young,
your phone will ring to nothing but
a wrong number.
You will allow yourself a little sarcasm in saying
you have no idea who they’re asking for.
You will tell the young Billy Joel
“Blame it all on yourself” is
an unhealthy relationship model
and someone who really was always a woman
would have told him so
but you’ll think he seems to
be doing alright
despite the pain of his years,
and you’re not that far yet,
but so are you.
The pain I am writing to you from within
will soften enough for
a barefoot jaunt in the front yard,
for stray liquid droplets upon your arm
to whisper that
the greatest heat will
always be broken by rain;
for you to smile at the reminder that
all kinds of weather have their music.
poem by Angela Cook, 2017