Tag: water

you want to know my climate. i have none. you demand insight to my core temperature and my core temper. they have no average. “where,” you slam your fist down, “are the records of your tides, who keeps the collection of your common sediments, which museum holds the species of your soul?”
and i say: nowhere, nobody, none.
because i am weather above the ocean and my storms cannot be predicted. you will find me in the lightless depths of waters that gave life millions of years ago, where rules are crushed under tons of air and salt. my tracks lead into the atmosphere where climate is an unknown name and clouds sing another hymn every day.
i won’t be measured in your steady units. my body may be rain-smoothed stone, but you cannot guess the earthquakes of my actions with your questions.
i have and always will be made of seasons and water, of air and soil and if i still – if i rest – it’s only to because my summer has ended to invoke autumn in me.