Clime
The weather is a character
In my biography; unlike me,
It is rarely in doubt. I have run
In rain storms and blizzards.
The clear sky gleamed with
A perfect attendance of stars
The night my math teacher
Mother died. All quiet outside
In the parking lot though I could
Feel hands around my throat.
Her generation mutated us because
They knew it didn’t matter
When it rained if you left the farm.
Storms weaken till they lose their names.
It drizzles at one end of the yard.
At the other the sun shines.
When the temperature drops
I wear myself the way
My mother taught me.
No comments:
Post a Comment