Bright Weather

Fair is the weather
in my left coat pocket,
the weather in my hand.
Fair is the weather
like ribbons in my hair,
like feathers that I tuck behind my ear.
Fair is the weather
down the highway through the mountains,
down the road that winds among the summer hills.

Dark is the storm cloud
on the distant river,
on the dress that I have not yet worn.
Dark is the storm cloud
like blood spilled on the ground,
like night between the fingers of the trees.
Dark is the storm cloud
down the mountains of my ribcage,
down the road that winds its way into my chest.

Soft is the morning
where the first light gathers
in the hollows of the woodlands and the fields.
Soft is the morning
like lips pressed together,
like light beyond the eyelids of the sea.
Soft is the morning
down the brooks into the valleys,
down the rocks and early mosses of the heart.

First published in The Sunlight Press, Jan. 21, 2025.