I do not like storms.
Their outpourings, vast and unfriendly
excessively strong, as if the whole sky,
grown mad from the drought, unleashed
its catharsis on the parched land below.
I don’t like wind, either.
All manner of objects, some really heavy,
careen toward me in fast-forward dreams.
I’m pressed to wet ground,
howling mute, unheard cries.
I do not like winter.
Whoever claimed candles can banish the darkness
was lying! Tree trunks stand stained
an oily deep brown, leaves and needles
turned olive and shiny. I hear ants underground,
plotting mass invasions
of kitchen and pantry.
I do not like waiting.
Spring seems so far away. Meanwhile,
I must hunker down, dressed in bulky wool layers,
tromp through puddles
in heavy rain boots, then fondly recall
how my scantier-clothed self
cycled down sun-drenched hills
on Ionian isles, a warm breeze draped around
my tan shoulders, turquoise sea
to my right, wintry thoughts