Be

I consider my mood

and wonder where it comes from,

wonder at its depth

and its melancholy.

In such moods

I have been asked by near-strangers

what I am thinking,

as if they had a right.

Or worse,

they simply order me to smile

as if smiling is somehow better

than thinking.

Now I enjoy the rain

pelting the steel roof of my car,

the scrape of wipers against glass,

the crackle of static from my half-received station.

For a precious while

I have time to observe my mood,

and it is enough

just to let it be.

©2003 Donna Jo Wallace.