My weather is not delicate, soft and lukewarm.
My summer is not a light brush of shoulders in between crowded doors,
Or a gentle, light laugh that shyly forms
In low-tide waters far from shores.
In neither blinding sun nor cloaking dark, I am submerged,
Leaning over clifftops, bare toes teetering on the verge,
Testing the strength and the depth of my nerve;
Grey swords jutting out; temptation along the drop’s curve.
My weather is not tame and delicate.
My wind more often a storm, raging and violent,
Sun dismissing and disappearing, darkness of night my quiet.
But even the deepest gloom can be a shade of violet.
I am flame attacked by wind, bending but not snuffed, as far as it can reach.
My whitewashed wasteland of ashes into golden sands on a tropical beach,
Each single grain holding whole oceans of strength under a microscope,
Quivering on the horizon of infinite hope.
– Jen (reader in a reverie)