Weather
Today the sun is a wish hidden by clouds.
Trees shake like sawgrass in the wind.
Rain is a fine net over the rooftops.
The whole of our lives we are weather.
This way of living, of always being next to things,
always on the way to the next big storm,
can leave us breathless, and when it goes,
it goes like mist or powder.
Desire
So much is hidden in our sandstorm of desires.
But what else can we do?
So we fill up silence with the sparkling cut glass of our desires,
try to make it effable,
fill the spaces between seconds and breaths.
Waiting
But the uncomfortable silence we work so hard
to obliterate takes us over in the end,
if not, one can only hope this feeling,
of always waiting for the next thing, isn’t eternal.
Poetry on the run 
This poem seems Buddhist:
“always on the way to the next big storm,
can leave us breathless, and when it goes,
it goes like mist or powder.”
The piece wraps up with ‘Waiting’.
I believe that angst-y feeling of waiting for the next thing…the “uncomfortable silence” which, IF it does not take us over in the “end” can be a place for gratitude. Gratitude and maybe without sounding mindless, I can also insert and assert something like ‘wonder’?
We can hope the feeling of waiting is, at least, not eternal. The silence and the waiting strike me as one and the same. The songlessness of the Universe, this absence of explanation or meaning. The “sparkling cut glass of our desires”…sounds like wind chimes, our voices high and overheard.
Or maybe the speaker is the anti-Buddha here….
There is something very profound you have going–the playing of waiting, storms, eternality, breath, end(ing)(s)….Do we really want those moments of desire to go away? What is the alternative, and do we want that?
I feel I’m under a night with too many stars while reading this. I can see the dome of the heavens.
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Thank you Holly, you know, sometimes I think what you say about my poem is so much better than the poem itself, these are lovely thoughts.
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