The sky grimaces because

I always stare, causing discomfort. He

twists his clouds up into funnels,

trying to create a portal of

escape.

 

But he can’t leave here; he’s stuck.

Uncrossing his legs, he spreads them wide- like

the men on the bus who heat up my knees by

forcing them together to rub until

I’m dumped off at Main- he sighs a

scorched wind and slouches into the sunset.

 

I look away, satisfied, and a little lower now,

seeing even from here that someone’s fallen

on the mountain; a thick vein of packed snow

marks where they slid, likely headfirst, down the

north side.

 

A couple of white birches were hit- their skins

rolling tightly into themselves like little fists, ready

to strike. It’s nothing critical-

but some leaves are still vibrating.

They didn’t see it coming and

that scared them.

 

Now, the crocuses are poking out in the valley,

spilling purple everywhere,

reminding me of when I buried

costume jewelry in the garden.

I thought I could grow more bangles and broaches,

that they needed extra

sunshine for that sparkle.

 

Now I know that’s all overrated;

it’s much better to look out and churn

the grey.