Collecting metaphors, we’re talking out
a family catastrophe. Attacked
by stroke of terrible, we reel about
a hill less steep, a launchpad: inexact
but apt, expressed to call recovery
with optimistic attitudes, of course.
We speak in terms of fight and bravery,
allow no negatives, and hug with force.

It rains outside, but that’s the Portland norm,
and though we’d all adore a beam of sun,
pathetic fallacy would need a storm
compared to this. We’re nodding, everyone:
there is no omen ominous or near —
some time must pass before we’re in the clear.