On Weather

By Adrian Harte

i was the ferocity of summer day
the pyrotechnics of those same nights
you constant as the gulf stream
supplanting frigidity with balm

me a gentle breeze on your neck
a first snowflake melting on the road
you the equator and all the tropics
bulging but always in the right place

i floated a cumulus adrift
you pulled the tides, as told by the moon
i was waving – and drowning
you at sea level, impervious

i was weather, and you were climate
changeless, even in this gretan age
the concrete shelter for my tangled ribs
forever whispered to fairweather folly

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