My brother married
A vivacious woman
She positively glowed
as effusive compliments
echo by my brother

She beguiled him
With her charms.
She was a cynosure
Of all eyes
As she walked
Into the room

As time passed
Their love
Became volatile

My brother and I
Devised
Our own language
Though the use of
Weather Terms;  

It’s a sunny day
meant
A good time to visit

Cloudy weather
Changing Rapidly
meant
She’s about to blow.
Not advisable to stop by

The weather terms I worried about most;

Thunderstorms, Eminent Danger

Lighting Strikes likely Twice

I only heard this report once;

A Cyclone Twister
Appeared out of nowhere
Run for the hills
Nowhere to hide
No one is safe
Probable Casualties

My reply;
Yep I’ll skip the visit
To my Brother’s today

Brother’s reply;
Yes a good judgment call
Little Sister

My reply ;
Thanks for the heads up, Bro

I’m a Smooth Sailing Breeze
Perhaps I’ll Catch you
On the way back.
Depending on where
The Weather Blows

Brother’s s reply

“Bury me at Sea

I fear RIP”
🪦


Inspired Songs;
1) You Are The Sunshine of My life 1972
By Stevie Wonder

2) Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head 1942
By B J Thomas

3) Have You Ever seen The Rain?
By Creedence Clearwater Revival

4) Fire And Rain 1970
By James Taylor

5) Rider On The Storm 1971
By The Doors


Footnotes
Regardless of this turbulence
This couple has been together for 45 years
a lot of weather under the bridge. I think that’s what they mean by weathering the storm. If marriage was easy, everybody would be married. I think we’re just the kind of people who don’t quit. you take the good with the bad regardless of the situation you keep going and there’s always tomorrow. There’s no such thing divorce. If you think about it, if you know you’re gonna be together tomorrow, it kind of takes the sting out of those hurtful comments. more than 50% of all marriages end in divorce.

Her laugh
is the pill
I didn’t know
I took—

A side order
with wings—
It lifts
it stings
it loops in erratic
dark circles
through my
cranial attic.

They call it
love—
I call it
a persistent
condition.

The cure—
I’ll tell you
if ever
I can
stop
dancing.

She moves like winter—
soft, slow,
cradling the air—
her steps are untraceable.

A life of corners suits her—
neat, unassuming,
never begging for light.

She keeps herself
tight within a space,
the way a bird
tucks its wings—
precise,
as though her presence
can speak just as loud.

When she speaks,
her voice skims the air—
pale as a white crow
sharp as double blades
of a cold November wind.

Her words land clean—
a snowflake dissolving
before you can catch
its pattern.

Just notice—
the warmth she guards,
burning coals
behind her sober look.

Her wrists,
fine and birdlike,
trace the outlines
of her wilderness.

It waits—
in the curve of her jaw,
in the way her fingers grasp,
tighter than they need to.

When I spread
her legs wide,
like the wings
of her hungry mouth—
she is the shadow
of the snow
on a ****** field—
softness
with deliberate grace
a river that never asked
to be seen.