There are many bad days

full of rain.

Storm clouds break like wine glasses, like barrels of explosives, like hearts that love too much

and I walk through it all, wet.

Why write?

Not for money or fame, but for

the damp drizzle of green leaves

the smell of wet dust, like death, refreshed

I write, because I must.

I am the weather—

Mountains offer their beauty to me, but the wind is why I sleep there

to feel as high and mighty as the storm

as calm as a falling snow

as quiet as winter’s mantle, like an icy grave

and the fire

warms my soul.

I know it’s foolish, but not to wish for anything else

is a wonderful thing.