A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER

 

Lemon-y light blows my hair about.

It’s as if it comes through

my granny’s tea-strainer in Spring.

 

Like her, I drink tea, black, no sugar

with a piece of lemon for a refreshing change.

 

I love the first, fresh, redolent, enervating

scent of change fermenting

on the ego-loss breeze,

the tidal roar of wind in the trees.

 

It reminds me to say that clouds

observed through mental hospital glass

only come to mean that

all things must pass, thankfully.

 

For some myriad minds

immured in Monopoly Jail

it can be the only useful thing to write of, clouds.

 

But now I’m out and hope to get better,

maybe write a long complaint letter

to and from a higher self and

traverse that impassable gulf.