With wild imagination, the sky
speaks in colors and contortions
before storms settle in the mountains,
as gray clouds scout a trail to camp,
a granite peak to rest upon,
run aground, snow and rain.
Three score years plus
of looking up—and away,
daydreaming fleeting poetry
even as a child out the window
of a forced nap—another tongue
with no letters in its language,
only colors and shapes
from every perspective,
no two the same.
On the weather map
watching the storm slide
slowly down the Sierras,
a green right arm wraps
around San Jose,
counterclockwise,
headed toward this warm
midsection, and I wonder:
with an upper cut of cold?
—wet inch down already,
as if the gods are on a mission
to treat us squarely—
as if there is a plan
to anything,
or just random rolls
we learn to adjust to
moment after moment
never seen before!
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged anthropomorphism, gods, life, storms, weather
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