Goddess of harvests
calls out from wheat fields waving —
Heavy clouds marching

The sky
Either friendly
Or hostile
As the weather changes
Like our personality
We change for the better
And sometimes the worse
But in nature she
Shape shifter for sure
Ever so changing

The earth so thirsty,
Like the burning in your throat.
Dead leaves no longer crunch,
But slide from underfoot.

Dust has turned to powder
Radiating from the scorched earth.
Trees standing motionless,
Branches extended in plea.

A whirl-wind whorls in the distance,
Devouring all in it's path,
With not a question asked.
Devastation.

Roofs uplifted and fallen,
Cries of anguish at the sky.
Why?
Despair turning to anger.

A crack,
A rattle,
A rumble.
And the heavens answer in a loud mumble.

Hope?
Anticipation?
Possibility, or
Relief?

And then ...
Plop, plop - a raindrop
The sound so profound,
That all prospect is drowned.

The storm comes to a head,
Deafening anger pours from heaven.

This is what you want?
Take it - a demand, not a request.
Will you ever be satisfied?

The dehydrated ground,
Drinking it's fill.  Till it no longer can.
Each drop, a promise of life,
Where earth has narrowly avoided strife.

The darkness lifts,
The sky now a lighter hue,
Where the sun peeks through
Shining yet another never-ending promise.

Steam rising,
Yes - hope uplifting.
The lingering sweet smell of rain
Dampening your skin.

Satisfied?

The Hallowe’en decor
has been put away for another year.
Christmas lights line each house and door,
illuminating every single tear.
The day of the dead has passed
but next holiday is one more for me,
since I’ve got the ghost of Christmas last
following me eternally.

Because you can’t weather proof against memories,
and you can’t keep grief from seeping through the windows.
The cold is the coldest of enemies
and it freezes you each time the wind blows.

The wind’s slapping at my face
and there’s a chill biting at my bones,
and in every snowflake; a feeling laced
“in our own arms we die”; all alone.
My mother was the spring,
just like it; she couldn’t stay very long.
The breath of fresh air she would bring
until her own breath wasn’t very strong.

Because you can’t weather proof against memories,
and you can’t keep grief from seeping through the windows.
The cold is the coldest of enemies
and it freezes you each time the wind blows.

No you can’t weather proof against memories,
and you can’t keep regret out of a locked door.
It has been that way for centuries
and it’ll be that way for centuries more.

The beach in winter is my crying place
The shower will do
Sometimes the car
The tucked-away toilets at work
They are containers
But the beach is
My accomplice

We mourn together, weather gives us room
The wind assists, insists that others leave
If some resist, enlists the sand to
Reinforce the clear command with
Stinging pressure, stresser that the
Beach in winter is for us
And us alone
To sit
And safely grieve

From a window up high
I can hear the rain
Drumming down
Grey
Sloshing through streets and
Ruining leather shoes  

Children scream in delight
And scatter
Running with their school bags or jackets
Up over their heads
Some not even bothering
No umbrellas
Revelling in their drenched clothes
Water dripping down their noses

And I think about how
It happens one day -
You start to step over puddles
Instead of jumping in them