you know those weavers are children in chairs
and they’re learning to knit.
the blanket of knots beneath their feet will be lit
by a rusted peach sun.
Those red breasted robins are pecking the ground
like scraping the last serving from the edge of the pan
and I won’t be watching the leaves fall with wonder.
Neither did the simmering breeze thump my heart
at the crest of the Summer.
I don’t pine for pumpkin spice or the sound of the thunder-
In the rainy season, there’s no need to march into the sea,
just fold those pants up to the knees and breathe
the saturated air until you have drowned
Then open your eyes underwater.
Go ahead and open your mouth
and scream a big bubble of dread when you find
you’re not dead!
You’ll be suspended in the grey and waiting for a single ray
of light to penetrate for a time unnamed,
like a specimen in a jar labeled “the 49th shade”.
Then when the lid cracks and your eyes
get knocked back from the bright,
you will wonder when you started hating the light.
Pacific Northwest molds the walls and the clothes
and fearfully molds our clay.
We thirsty, we hungry, we creatures of the longest night.
We wince at the sun on the shortest day.