Everything seems smaller on a cloudy day:
Dreams, skyscrapers, and packages of seedless plums.
It is not a lessening of the light as much
As it is a lowering of our sight, as eyes
Greet these gray visitors of December.
Days ending sooner than in June
Are not so noticed if the sun shines, but when
They are cast over, it feels like a theft
Of time. We do not feel sad as much
As we feel our lines of thought twisted
A bit, clarity blocked, senses cheated.
We turn lots of lights on before sunset,
Just so we can see the evening paper despite
The gloom that we can taste, eat our dinners
After daylight and go to sleep in hope of rising
To a day that gives us real light.
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