Hard times like wine on the skin,
some blush between the discarded inhibitions.
Verdant memories soaking in slowly,
like ancient intercontinental trade routes;
the silent contents growing louder with history,
as too the benefits.

On sunny days, while grace shines upon us,
the vessel looks out of place.
Less than useless, an abuse of the time we have,
to remind us of the times we hate.
It aches in the light, becoming brittle planks,
on which our eyes will walk briefly,
and plunge into the depths of the day,
escape or drown, it’s all the same.

But on those rainy days they come to collect
all our troubles overflowing,
and they tell stories only the rain can hear;
thunderous applause after each quiet punchline.

It is dangerous to consume what the sky gives us,
for it may return our own gifts.