We are all a storm,
Raindrops one and all,
We are aqua,
Fluid,
Changeable,
Gravity nips at our heels,
All of us,
From princes to paupers,
Some indeed raise above the masses,
Lifted by warchests and oil drills,
But even they veer towards ground,
Ones altitude in life means nothing,
This is a storm,
We all fall together.
I see it,
I feel it,
I wish it were a nightmare,
But it is manifest,
I spy it on the horizon,
Across waters not yet disturbed,
A miserable stormfront,
Foreboding in the heavy air,
This storm alludes to future pain,
Bolts like thrown tableware,
Humid air like the tension between foes,
Thunder like the lashes of expletives,
Clouds and lights like eidolic billboards,
Lamentation in arcing lights,
It waits in the distance,
A reminder that the great misery beckons.
The sun is a tyrant,
Thermometers were its heralds,
Yet we still opened our windows,
Below these beams of radiation do I reside,
And my willpower is stripped from me,
Melted down to perspiration,
Burned to cinders,
Scorched beyond recognition,
I am a wickerman,
Burned to X’s and O’s,
Sandcastles have become my skin,
Sweat has become my lifeblood,
My breath has become a menagerie of spices,
Made pink by the skys hatred,
I am scorched,
As are we all.
I stood there judging the sky,
Wondering what it all means,
The grey answers back in spite,
Scorn upon the clouds,
A copious downpour of rain descends,
Speaking in tongues,
The scent of fresh lawn and dew rises in chorus,
It burns my eyes,
This interaction draws on for hours,
It collides with insults upon asphalt,
A cacophony drowning out my thoughts,
Thunder quakes distantly joining the orchestra,
This blue veil the downpour has laid over me,
And the chills that comprise it,
They whisper in my ear,
Who am I to judge the sky?
In these scorching months,
Me and the sun continue our samba,
It’s this crimson dance we do every year,
Me and that solar predator,
Nuclear in her vivacity and brilliance,
Our dancefloor is the open blue sky,
My skin gripes in the heat,
Painted red in the radiation,
I don’t scream,
Even as my flesh sizzles,
The mercury rising is the chorus we sway to,
I’m a glowing one,
This summer dance cannot go on long enough,
I revel in the swelter,
My sweat only the toll I pay,
To not feel the grip of winter again.
The fickleness of spring gives way,
The temperature rises,
And with it comes the anticipation,
Hope for this year,
And the trees samba to a thankfully cool breeze,
As we rejoice around the barbeque,
Sunbathing and sunburns,
Beaches and azure waves,
Picnics and chilled beverages,
These temporary heavens,
I adore them all,
These hallmarks of a summer fulfilled.
Spring is come,
I see it in the daffodils legion beside the road,
I feel it on the warmer zephyr,
My ears heed the throng leaving hibernation,
The smell of fresh grass graces my nostrils,
I taste the cordial breeze upon my tongue,
My senses can perceive the shift,
The world comes to life again,
Shaking off the frosty mantle,
Bringing its head above the snow finally,
Taking a long-awaited breath,
Its veins bearing aqua unfrozen once more,
Like an archaic blade reforged,
The world exists anew.
The season of the harvest is here,
When the arbors perform strip shows for their friends,
And the land adopts an ochre blanket to hushnup its prudishness,
Pumpkins and Guy Fawkes prepare their pomp,
The air grows ever brisker,
In preparation for Jack Frost,
His winter games for us all to endure,
Over yonder I spy an idle spectator,
Held aloft and open in a field,
A wooden figure of a human,
An offputting caricature of straw and old fashion,
Though bodily impervious to the changing of elements,
He hates the chill and wind but can only scream in silence,
His mouth is sewn shut,
What crime justifies such a penance?
What devilry gave him this crucifixion?
An idol of the harvest,
To withstand storm and banish avian menace,
This farmyard mannequin restrained,
Was it against his will?
Or merely born of a desire to attend the seasons shift?
The times of cold approach,
And the dark with it,
Twin seasons of Fall and Jack Frost,
Times of boreal frost biting at your fingers,
Seasons of shivers,
Presents of pumpkins and bonfires,
But not before the autumnal death of the year,
Firstly come the hues of orange and brown,
Emeralds decaying from the boughs,
Laying a carpet of beguiling entropy,
A funeral for this turn of the sun,
With scents of ginger and freshness,
Then follows the true storm of cold,
Walls of snow from the sky,
Rain haunting the alleys like spectres,
Jack Frost cackles in blizzards,
Leaving little crystalline stars about as presents,
These times bring cold and discomfort,
It’s undeniably true,
But it also brings gatherings around fireplaces,
Blankets and cuddles and cinnamon,
Hope for a new year,
If the cold didn’t bear down,
We wouldn’t know the warm.
