Because they were cowards to the New York cold,
where raggedy excuses for trees reached out their spindly  branches,
sharing the same skinny neck and sharp elbows as my mother.
While snow sprinkled the drab cement, harbingers of more cold to come,
My parents retreated as far south as they could.
Don't get me wrong.
New York is a place of inspiration, blinding lights and lovely nights.
Though we're in the warm haven of Houston,
where summer is an oven and winter brings gentle breezes,
although the trees here stand broad, confident, and forever green,
My parents will never forget the frigid, bitter chills of New York.

the sun peaked in the sky, shining with authority after having chased the clouds away.
    "Beautiful weather today," you exclaim.
but what's so beautiful about the same boring radiant sun?
                                                     the same old blue sky?
I'll tell you what's beautiful.
the howling winds of a winter storm, and the rising growl of thunder
    are like music to my ears.
the shimmering threads of lightning weaving themselves across the sky
are what i dream about every night.
the soft sheets of rain soak me to my bones.
           I shiver with delight.
Even my eyes can't completely grasp
       the tragic beauty of a brewing storm.