And they prayed to the gods who
brought the cool water, the wetness
which didn't burn. They defied mother's
warnings to stay away from water,
to stay indoors, to stay safe.
It never rains in California, or
snows in Seattle, except when
it does. My father rails yet from
his grave against the wetness of
"the coast." Everyone, everywhere
loves where they live "because it
has all four seasons" but disregard
none would agree what those seasons
should look like or if they exist(ed)
at all. Kids play baseball in snow,
football during extreme heat
warnings. My childhood home
fills with smoke every time I
visit—never during my childhood.
My front yard struggles to under-
stand why rain drowned months
of drought yet six weeks later, they
thirsted again. We think ourselves smart
with only vague notions of
weather's history, its background, its
vagaries, its fickle obstinacy
toward being pinned down.
Strip "climate change" of its
political charge, what's left?
Surety. Things have changed...but...
did this wheel always spin? Did we
merely boost it? Ask my grandparents
during the Dust Bowl. Ask my great-
grandparents during winters when
my grandparents greeted our world.
Ask me. This feels different. This
feels "not normal." This smacks of
Apocalyptic Event (movie to follow).
68/100
100 poems in 100 days
all the voices in my head 