From flowers to rain to ice,
The cycle continues.
From before we were advanced enough to recognize it,
And the storms meant the end of days rather than cloud particles.
From when we worshipped it,
Blaming ourselves for droughts and turning to unjust sacrifices
To bring the water back.
Water came back, in the form of storms,
And it was glorified.
A part of our culture.
The cycle continues for countless generations
Past devestations swaying into new ones,
Like a teaching passed down from protege to protege,
Each iteration refusing to update.
Soon scientists understood how and why weather came,
And artists drew inspiration from snowy nights and sunny days.
Breaking the cycle seemed impossible,
Breaking the cycle would mean abandoning everything we knew.
Year after year, rotation after rotation, flowers to rain to ice come.
Yet, we’ve managed to break the cycle.

    Wonderful.                        We’re doomed.

Coffee alone is a moment of mine,
An oval mug served by a girl with a smile
Dark coloured drips coming down at the sides..
crashing through time, like gas giants catching the light

And raging outside is the storm in it's tracks
Tall windows spare us the blustery flak
Moored for a moment we are comfortably sat
Our ghostly reflections are a film upon glass

You say
it’s too hot
to see the sights-
that’s okay,
because baby,
none of these sights
compare to the sight
that is you.

In Georgia, it is 82 degrees.
Sweltering sticky heat and air so thick with humidity
It’s like you’re swimming through syrup
Weigh me down.
Sweat slips down my spine like living water, a reminder that
I am here— uncomfortable, yes, but not quite hurting.
People smile. I smile back.

In New York, it’s 39 degrees.
Wind whips at my face, rendering my cheeks rosy and stinging my eyes with tears.
My teeth chatter, rattling my whole jaw with them.
The subtle pain reminds me I’m alive.
I’m not quite sure when I decided pain and existence were synonymous
But I did
And today is another reminder.
I smile. No one smiles back.

At least they’re alive. At least I am.

The rain is falling down the winter sky
the fog is wrapped like moss around the house
a fire is burning in the stove and I
am curled up in my hole, an elder mouse
who's seen the wars and lived to tell the tale
who's belled the cat and stolen all the cheese
who's climbed the stair and slid down on the rail
who's lived through summer's heat and autumn's freeze.
That is the past, for now the days are warm
even in this winter-time of life
although I'd take the snows to rainy storms,
for burrowing beneath avoids the strife
of dodging hawks and cats, and also owls
but in the sky the future softly growls.

The winter blues are rich with gloom,
twisting my heart with apathy.

And perhaps shame too, let it not hide behind the weather.

Is it this dark obsession or some hidden transgression?

All the lessons learned, but failure is all that remains.

What road is left, I cannot see between the flickers of my dwindling flame.

Falling away
like leaves from autumn trees
Like summer departing
it feels quite alarming
how fast it became hard to sleep
No longer easy to walk ever since
the spring in my step
became a web that entangles
my world
of winter
it's become so cold
since all of my friends have gone
and the question
echoes and echoes inside my mind
What have I done?

the cold quiet of a winters night
it moves through me
every crash of the sea
every leaf rolling falling