That time of year where rains come

And will for the next seven months,

The gutters an empty summer trough

With not but a sparse dried leaf

Are now full to overflowing

By the weeping of the sky.

The unused ladder

Squeaks under my weight

Boots that feel buttered

Slip on rusted rungs.

This task like that of Atlas

That never ends so you never begin,

Just like the clogged eaves of this heart.

– Vagabond Prophet