The air has stopped today, slumped down
its shoulders and settled in my throat.
Love was a summer breeze, blue
as a lilo on a hotel pool, an inflated ego
clicking its heels to someone else's tune.
They say it never rains, and love came again as a hurricane.
A commotion of colours and changing light
in flight on mercurial wings,
re-arranging the patterns of things.
Then love was a light wind, the sort that settles in.
Cool as the sun in a winter sky, a sigh,
the exhaled 'ohm' of a buddhist chant just as long
as the time it takes to leave a space and find a place to go.
I long for a perfect storm, a breath taken deep
to rouse a rush like the sea at the edge of a cliff,
the foam at the shore. A storm with the force
of a thunder roar, the solid sound of a trombone
taken up and thrown in the air.
I long for a perfect storm, a deluge of fire and light,
one hundred degrees Fahrenheit.