Degrees of Melancholy On A Park Bench

You might come here Sunday on a whim.

Speak of loneliness, of sadness, of the rain.

Not out loud; it’s just for you.

The Melancholy sits with you on the bench,

  an invariable companion.

But then you notice: the bees, and

The birdsong and the sun rays,

Hitting your legs (it’s beautiful),

And the flowers and a father with a stroller.

And she doesn’t go away, you know

She won’t for years to come.

But at this moment,

On this bench, and

Through this Sunday

whim of yours.

she is one degree less