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.
Impoverished by the absence of summer light,
Embracing the brightness of night,
Finding solitude in the silhouette of moonlight,
Seeking rest in the busy business of the stars’ fiery quiet.
And 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)