The weather
does not even know
we're alive,
and yet sometimes, it changes
in ways
which are kind.
When you're low, a white
cloud blooms and
blankets the sky;
when you're blue,
tongues of mellow flame,
arrange themselves just so
on the trees
which array your
apartment's bay windows—
wagging their yellows,
and crimsons,
and browns—
not to distract,
but defend
or console
against the slowly thickening knots
of grim
winter's shadow.
