At sunrise,
Or what would be,
If there were a sun today,
A grey man is revealed.
His coat collar, frozen all night,
Is now thawing, collapsing into a damp rag.
He is poking at the ashes of last night's fire,
Staring, hoping for a remaining flame;
A spark capable of prolonging the party.

It seemed to last forever:
A crescendo so slow
That the rain and wind took leave,
Returning to tread the fire back down.
Every sparkle and crackle
Seemed to jerk him to life.
Explosions were reflected in his glasses,
Absorbed by his coat,
Leaving him to slump
As the valley finally accepted the thunder.

Now he passes the stick between hands,
Shuffles within himself,
Shoves relieved fingers into warmth.
His search begins again,
Over the same ground,
Amongst the same embers,
For the same glimmer,
With the same deliberation.

To look is to feel his extinction,
Yet to close the curtains,
Or to make breakfast,
Would be to extinguish him:
His hopelessness suppresses the dawn,
Lingers like woodsmoke,
Clogs even itself.

What if his eyes should rise,
Full of the night's acrid sap,
To plead toward your window,
His stirring momentarily stilled?
Does this futility
Have the answer to your melancholy?
Is that wisdom out there
Or might it be wretchedness?