Poetry writing
is kind of like a lover,
who is suspicious,
about the weather.
All the time,
always looking skyward.
An eye for the sky,
the darkest tinge on the
edges of the clouds,
always perplexed by the next
breeze blowing, hot or cold.
Will it rain?
Will it be partly cloudy
in Cleveland today?
Will a Rainbow arch
across the gray sky?
Will lightning strike?
Will the Sun warm my face?
This lover,
this poem,
wandering all over the page,
concerned for the temperature,
the humidity, for the storms
in the readers eye.
I’ve erased about 17 different
version of this very poem
with thunderous aplomb.
Unstruck by lightning,
the Sunny grace of language or
the peach-colored magical words of
sunset over a snowy valley evades me.
A lover meandering,
in a storm,
all over the page,
a lover in too many embraces,
too many ports,
too many musings about weather.
Of which I am suspicious.
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