Weather

Blahs. Blues. Blechs.

And during my favorite season in a spell of such beautiful weather

Someone well intentioned asks, "But why are you sad?" 

As if reason could somehow disintegrate the thing, and besides "sad" isn't really the word

It's a force, like a silent hurricane of downward pressure and drowning rain 

Pressing flat and slapping you, sapping you - all of you -  it ends when it's done and not until 

Maybe you'll still be alive then, watching weirdly some new sun rising in it's place

But efforts made to cheer someone in that state now won't have the desired effect 

Snapping out of it isn't possible, an umbrella won't do, and your concern will turn to frustration

Long before it stops blowing through here, so just

Let him weather his weather as best he can

There's nothing else to do