I watch   the weather closely   every pattern   every

warning   I want   to predict the next squall   In my next life

I’ll be a reporter   name the currents   the typhoons   find

the eye  If I know   the winds  then they can’t carry   me   away  I understand

high pressure   no quiet   after the storm   The weather makes me

small   Is always correct    There’s nothing   you can prepare for  

except the weather  It is not    war  I know where  lightning may strike  I crouch

indoors    away from trees   sleep with my cats   Our figures   three mounds

in the dark   Friends are more dangerous   than hail   To love

is to invite separation    from the beloved   Rain is safer   Always shelter

to be found   I prefer the sun   which blinds me  Temporary erasure   bright sun

on fields of snow    When I return indoors   the rooms are black   hiding squalor

the lifetime  I have hoarded   objects are sentient    this paddle   this pot   this

plate remembers   better times   all of us  under one roof   birthdays

these stacks of newspapers  won’t leave me  they want to become  walls