Within the Fold

A Sunny Day beckons through the windows, imposes itself on my conscience, demanding my dutiful presence. It is vast, outstretched, flowing away from me with an earnest potential, a groping command to be fully realized in the breathless glory of the out-of-doors. And I find it wearisome — taxing my will to motivate. It radiates — this sprawling, photo-worthy day — just beyond the curtains, bathed in self-righteous superiority, guilting me shamelessly, expectantly, like a beautiful, grinning only child — bat, ball, and glove in hand. But I am overwrought, and far too small to fill the open spaces of the sun drenched world, and so I turn away.

A Rainy Day, however, begs for nothing, assumes nothing of my time, for time has seemingly paused within the soft muteness of grey nimbus. A veil of drizzle ensconces my porch, and I sit within the fold, the gentle drumming of infinite droplets performing a symphony for no-one in particular. And in the absence of the persistent Sun, I am allowed a moment to think — to reflect, project — for I am unbidden and unburdened in this white, blank, blanket state, where expectations have long since washed down the storm grate. It is in the voiceless precipitation that I am stirred to the verge of inspiration. I pick up my pen and write.