Shorts and T-Shirts
Summer came to Mid-Missouri in February,
eighty degrees for more than a week.
Someone said, If you don't like the weather,
wait an hour and it will change.
It did not change, the sky boring blue,
and every now and then a lisp of white,
a wagon train of clouds, blue and more blue,
the great shadow of turkey vultures.
A Change in Climate
an orange field of dust
cloud shadow
an Antigua blue sky
fading and fading
into sullen greys
sober almost
uneasy
until they elicit
a scope of value
Cloud Dance
Sometimes clouds are ballerinas
moving into one another
and then they spin to the floor
before creating a modern dance step
rising in slow motion to one leg
as if they are buffalo grass trying to rise
past two inches after a grand soaking.
Once I knew I might be sacred climbing
the long steps to the top of the fire tower
to look out over the large expanse of kindling
waiting for the lion's roar after the spit of lightning
dissolves everything for miles into flame.
Some days rain falls down as sweat,
we let go of our breath and feel heat,
and every now and then, wonder
how the solid blue sky begins
shadowing itself into shades of grey.
I know then--as I know now--
sacred is in the weather I immerse myself in.
Michael H. Brownstein's latest volumes of poetry, A Slipknot to Somewhere Else (2018) and How Do We Create Love (2019) were both published by Cholla Needles Press.
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