Feeling, Storms Brewing

(A heavy head, a heavy heart, 
a weary hand...)

I still see her, sitting there,
she is alone,
in a plain field.
She stares at a distance,
or, perhaps, into oblivion.
I watch from a distance,
I feel her, I feel her.
We are both lost
in some world,
some world of thought,
of longing,
of memory,
of feeling,
of the inexplicable,
and the complicated.
I feel the weight
of her loss,
as I watch children play
a distance behind her,
and watch a man walk by,
and hear dogs bark close by,
and feel a breeze
and the cold in it.
It drizzles, in my heart,
and then it pours.
I, too, am lost
I have walked home
and back,
I have stridden to the fields
and back,
but cannot help but feel
lost, within.
I watch her,
before I resolve to return not.
I know I feel her,
but can never understand her,
for I, on my feet, move,
and yet, I cannot help but feel
She supports a heavy head
on a weary hand.
It rains. It pours.

©benielangat, 2021.

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