You know the wind’s a wimp.
You’re waiting impatiently
for its frozen slap in the face,
and all you get is a lukewarm caress.
The weather’s reserved,
predictable, pleasantly polite.

You curse at it.
Cut loose already;
tell me what you’re really feeling.
You want to tremble,
so hard your shivers have shudders,
not just from the cold.

You feel all blues are boring,
even the sky, so seeking sapphires,
hoping to get azure right,
you realize none could ever be deep enough,
so no substitute color
would ever be big enough.

You wish the worms would leap right out of the dirt
and fall back in puffs of dust.
You want to glide over waters teeming with life.
Sailing’s close to flying.
At least birds still wander overhead,
over horizons, out of sight.

You can’t find the right pole to guide you,
looking for true south, not fooled by the False Cross,
all you get is a marching zodiac.
Seasons? There should be only two—day and night.
Sunsets are a blink, and you long for them
to last and last and last.

You start wondering if
the world doesn’t know what white is.
You haven’t been snow blind for far too long,
so you haven’t been forced to navigate
by your mind’s eye,
and it’s gone to sleep.

You know you’re missing pieces of yourself.
Your dreams are listless, unfinished.
The clouds have been lifted too high,
and they won’t come back down to the ground.
It may be a cold, cold heaven,
but in it, everything floats.