Humidity (Humility?)

Everything feels wet today. The air is pregnant with unshed tears, and where is the release? Us mere mortals cannot hold this pain that overflows in the woven baskets we carry. Through the crevices and cracks, hiding in the shadows of interlocking braids of grass. The basket sighs and sags sadly. It begins to leak. But still, we pretend (pride?), that it is dry. The air stinks of sour denim drying, drying, always damp, from this wet air.