The Weather

You didn’t know
until you saw him
describe the weather,
and watched closely;
when it was hot,
his long hands sweated;
cold, his toes became ice;
rain, you saw the the lightning flash
across his eyes, the thunder pulsing
under the grey clouds of hair,
when light and breezy,
the sun skipped over
the freckles of his face,
and you knew he was coming
back into his body;
at night, under him,
moon-pale, you traced
the rivers of skin.

This is a reprint of work originally published in Still Crazy.

Nancy Gauquier graduated with a BA from UC, and has poems published (most recently) in Poems For All, 50 Haikus, Vagabonds, and The Stray Branch. She lives in central coastal California with her two cats, Max and Serena.

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