It's almost June.
Still got a fire going.
I don't see myself as one of those
Scandinavian poets who write
Almost only about the weather
Without reason.
The weather is a woman.
As angry as she is breathtaking
Around here.
Turned on and scared,
We brace for impact before
Every forecast.
*Will there be a summer at
All, or dull, lightless skies of
Unblue until the rain comes
Down solid again?*
I dip my pen in warm memories.
Sad that they are mostly
From abroad, I surrender the idea
Of truth in poetry.
Well, we drink around fires.
Cling to the military standard long
Underwear we stole when we were
In.
See too much as potential
Firewood.
We notice that the sun never
Really sets these months,
But there's room for cold in
The light.
We pray for summer. Hoping
This year it falls
On a
Weekend.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
It's almost June.
Still got a fire going.
I don't see myself as one of those
Scandinavian poets who write
Almost only about the weather
Without reason.
The weather is a woman.
As angry as she is breathtaking
Around here.
Turned on and scared,
We brace for impact before
Every forecast.
*Will there be a summer at
All, or dull, lightless skies of
Unblue until the rain comes
Down solid again?*
I dip my pen in warm memories.
Sad that they are mostly
From abroad, I surrender the idea
Of truth in poetry.
Well, we drink around fires.
Cling to the military standard long
Underwear we stole when we were
In.
See too much as potential
Firewood.
We notice that the sun never
Really sets these months,
But there's room for cold in
The light.
We pray for summer. Hoping
This year it falls
On a
Weekend.
