Where is the sun?

I am very sad today. I am actually often very sad. Sad that I don't get out of the house. Sad that I don't have a reason to. And one of the things that gives me the greatest joy these days is being out in my garden, but it is very cold outside today, and my garden has been watered. The sun is out, I am certain, as the world hasn't stopped turning and we haven't disintegrated into debris, but she is hiding. Apollo makes his trip around the world, but doesn't heed the cloud cover beneath him.

Demeter whispers over my roses whether or not I am there to try and listen. There are bursting yellows, vibrant oranges, and, of course, the flawless velvet red. The aphids were destroyed by the ladybugs. The jasmine perfumes the air, though the hummingbirds prefer the lime tree.

In the irony of life, I wept when I felt I had found my purpose. I thanked the man that showed me the way, cried while smiling. I wept again when that purpose failed me and I was forced to see the world through cynical and bitter eyes again. I still weep for the fleeting nature of that dream. I am on a precipice where she is concerned, so often tired and alone by design. I don't want to be alone in this.