Weather
Acclimating to the weather patterns of a
Best friend whose
Climate is so heated by the breath of polar bear
Dogs, takes time,
Even if you bring your mothers swimsuit.
Frozen tundras have always been more your style, but
Good things come in two’s, so
Here you are, bounding
Into the waters filled with
Jellyfish so beautiful, you have to touch them. The
Key, which you have not yet been given, is to not touch them, rather
Lazily dance your fingers through the sand instead of the
Manic electricity. For she, is
Not manic, you are. Which is strange, given that hours evaporate
Obsessing over your own snowbanks being even. Only this
Pacifies your fear from the flurry above.
Quaking in your boots is now an art, as cold wind
Rakes through the caves in your mountains
Sweeping out bones from the last creature who
Trapesed from habitat to habitat only to find your territory
Unsuitable for making a life, but painted in breathtaking
Varying shades of pink.
When your atmospheres collide
Xerox me a copy of what the steam looks like when its backlit by
Yellow tinted light bulbs
Zapping moths who couldn’t care less about the weather.