The air feels like poppy seeds
ominous and warm
clouds heavy with yellow-green thunderstorms waiting to drop.

True love is a woman's color-
haven't you ever wondered why all God's angels are men?
Boys with wings that come and go and go and go
Ephemeral, fleeting

Yet mother earth continues to turn,
hiding her children in the folds of her skirt
a dance as old as time
older than the sun

And a weather girl laughs up at the sky
twirls in the image of her mother
pulls up the flowers

True love is not red
the sun is red

it is brown like the earth
like women
and it belongs to them more than it ever belonged to Gabriel.