THE PRODUCT OF MY DRIVE HOME, AND THE SIGHT BEYOND THE WINDOW I NOW FACE:
If only for the cross-breeze,
[with its iconic sound
and the blissful sense of chaos,]
I'd roll that window down.
If it was warm,
I'd still roll that window down.
I'd rather not face rain, though.
It's not that it won't sing--
it's actually quite full of
pieces of some everythings,
and also filled by hungry, grieved nothings.
But I don't think it'd be useful
to bet wet again so soon.
The clouds might disagree.
Last night, they hid the moon.
But even if it does rain,
I'd still roll down that window.
I still need that cross-breeze.
*STREAMOFTHOUGHT:* earlier i was discussing utah weather. i'm very much in love with the variety. i'm pretty sure it keeps me sane. i don't normally type poems. in fact, usually i can't type a poem. i just do better with a pen. i see green blurs on my willow. i view the tree right through that window-- the one willow i can see-- as my tree. right now there are lots of blurs. i wonder where my glasses went. i often have long titles. they usually mean more to me than i mean them to. or maybe they mean more to me than i mean them to mean to other people...