Variegated strands of weather weave
their magic tapestry on my mind.
I revel in their changing voices,
interpretative attire, and cacophony.
I look forward day to day, no, even
every moment, to their malleability.
I love sun, blue sky and light breeze,
but no less mad tempestuousness.
The splendance of the greyest dawn
smiles, blows scudding across my day.
It is dramatic change I seek, almost
as the leech smells out fresh blood.
Fastening tenaciously, I suck the
marrow of the barometer’s change.
I meter not my days, but greet each
a new acquaintance, friend or lover.
I extend my soul in welcome as a
knight did his in visual declaration.
Holding no weapon, bearing no
malice, I am seeking no combat.
I wish only to enwrap, submerge,
enjoy weather’s spirited vagaries.
Each changeling child of revolution
brings her own unique enjoyments.
No doppelgangers exists in this with
the parting curtains of each dawn.
Regardless how low the light or loud
the music, my day is a unique option.
I tease out deeper meaning, affinity of
an All: earthly, ethereally, spiritually.
Therefore: every day is acquiescent:
geographic, atmospheric, temporal.
I, too, add or subtract from each day
by the attitude and demeanor I bring.
Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember, the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher living in Moreno Valley, California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing poetry, Rick would rather still be tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon.
