“I think we are climates above which pause threats of storms that take place elsewhere.”—Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

What then, this weather

of strange balloons

and vanities engorged

like blowfish bladders

purpling to the point of bursting?

Who, among us,

will gather the sentient crackles

of a given storm

and secret them

away in a wicker basket

where, at a much later date,

when the sun has passed through the clouds,

the basket can be set on the grass for a picnic

in an imaginary park with invisible friends–

yes, imagine, you are a kid once again,

with all realities open to your gambits–

who, then, do you become,

when living according to whim and fancy,

and the kite-tailed night-birds of the heart,

you embrace the manic music

of the seasons,

and come to regard climate,

personal or otherwise,

as a cauldron, seething and bubbling,

seeking its rightful sorceress.