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 
somewhere, 
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 
somewhere. 
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 
lost. 
She supports a heavy head 
on a weary hand. 
It rains. It pours. 

©benielangat, 2021.