In Texas it's hot
In Chile it's not
Becuz climate change

The desert is dry
And clouds are high
Becuz climate change

If it rains or snows
Or if the wind blows
It's becuz climate change

Stop eating meat,
Or better yet, don't eat
Becuz climate change

The heat of the summer was creeping up my head,
making it clear for others to see my desire,
My faith, my mysteries—
letting my real self show to the world.
The more I open, the more they hate.
The world is built on lies,
and it doesn't welcome someone
With a foundation of truth.

The clouds of the season of showers make me sad,
make me reflect on my decision to live.
When the tiny drops of rain touch my face
With the breeze, it soothes me—
until the dark mood of the weather
stirs up my seasonal trauma.

The autumn winds, when leaves fall,
carry every step with the crackle of the dry,
each gust making the dead leaves swirl—
as if her presence follows me,
With every footstep echoed
by the brittle sound of fading things.
It is the season when most hearts break,
And more get swaddled in a fragile coating of care.

Winter—the season I cherish the most.
It bears neither the scorch of summer
nor the gloom of the verdant rains,
neither the shedding of autumn
nor the heartbreak it trails.
It doesn't mend,
Nor does it shatter—
It simply stalls time.
A waiting room
for the arrival of someone
whose presence holds together
The fragile threads of my sanity.

I do not hate winter.
My soul feels more at ease in its stillness
than in any other time of year.
Alas, I should have been born
In the outskirts of snowy, silent lands,
Living in a cabin in the woods.
The city has wearied me—
I've lost my touch,
My freedom—
made to think and feel
as if someone above
is pulling all my strings.

The wind wails,
rattles the glass,
claws at the trees,
shakes the bones of the house.

Rain slams down,
rivers racing,
thunder grumbling,
lightning splitting the sky apart.

But here—

Flames flicker,
logs crack,
embers glow,
heat seeps into the floor.

Blankets pile,
heavy, soft,
tucking me in,
wrapping me whole.

Sweater sleeves,
loose and worn,
slip past my hands,
stretched by years of holding on.

A mug of cocoa,
steam curling,
scent of cinnamon,
warmth pressed to my lips.

The storm rages,
wind howls,
windows shudder—

But I am still.
Eyes droop,
fire whispers,
the night holds me close.

Breath deepens,
muscles loosen,
the weight of the day melts away,
and silence settles soft around me.

Fingers twitch once,
then rest,
the world outside growing quieter
as the warmth lulls me deeper.

The fire crackles,
soft as a sigh,
and sleep comes slow,
a quiet invitation
to drift into peace.

She is my peace
her arms my warmth
her smile my joy
her love, my home.

The sailing Sun
Burns through the sky
With huge clouds of black and purple
Hot on her tail.

We all pray that she beats them to the horizon,
That we might remember this day as a beautiful one.

Missing the rain,
Leaves me in a blurry haze.
The sound of dripping drops,
Falling onto the rooftop.
The wish to hold you close,
As the thunder boasts.

Spring came and went quickly this year,
a brief headache as the air
pressure shifted and then
the sun came in. And then
the Summer came in.
Too hot and too dry. Too busy.
The hustle and bustle of
sweaty people who wear too
little and talk too much.
This season is no good
This season is no good at all.

It will be a bad day today.
A bad week perhaps.
A bad month. Too hot and
too dry. Demanding.
Taxing. The machines
not working, the people
not stopping. Hate. Hate. Hate.
It is ungodly how much hate
one can feel towards the
changing of the skies,
and all who abide by it.
Hate in the nanoangatrom,
unequal to one one-billionth.

There is no season shorter than Summer,
not here. Spring and Autumn
stagger themselves: a birth
and a death, spread out across
two months or more.
And Winter lingers, clings;
it doesn’t easily let go.
Summer is Summer once
and then it’s done.
Summer is Summer for a day
a week, a month,
and then it’s not.
And yet it stretches.
An eon, an age,
eternal, hot and dry,
unable to sleep; unable
to stay awake,
a sort of purgatory –
long days and short nights.
No end. No end. No end.

And so, wait, a day, a week,
a month, on and
on, over and over,
until around comes Autumn.
The leaves browning,
the blossoms falling.
A decay that spreads,
the beautiful kind:
soft on the eyes,
on the soul. Breathable.
A breathable decay.
October again; slow, calm.
Blossoms falling. Slow. Slow.

And a thought, soft
like the growing clouds and
the promise of snow,
a thought that lingers, that
fades in, that leaves a stain:
    if today is not a good day
    then make it one.
The trees are bare now, there’s
room for more. Room
for you, to hang
and dangle, snap and
crumple, to drift gently down
like falling blossom slowly
into a heap on the ground,
buried in pink or white,
buried in the death of Summer,
in the death of Spring.

My ****'s wet
With buttsweat,
My *******
With nutsweat.
I bust ***
With swamp ***
That bubbles
With swamp gas.

The cuckoo's
A-singin';
The bees are
A-stingin;
The thunders
A-drummin;
The sumers
Icumen.

Cruelest sensation
Rain needles on my skin—
Still warm from
that last ray of sunshine