The chill assaults my bare skin
Were we not burning just yesterday?
I ask the wind. It blows east without answering,
unable to tell stories about where it was
or where it dreams of going.
All it knows is the gradient of air pressure,
high to low
that’s where it goes,
an obedient soldier of the sky.
It’s rather silly of me to complain
About the weather when it’s just
Something I see outside my window working from home,
Like a slow motion painting
On these slow dying days.
Spoiler! :
Gender:
Points: 35799
Reviews: 1274