Temperate hardly means boring.
Dancing arm-in-arm with the sun.
She gets around.
Taiga. Tundra. Lakes upon lakes.
Yeah, she gets around —
a cosmopolitaine —
New York, Tokyo, Paris, Moab.
She gets the joke.
Damn Sahel. Wretched manchild.
The ghosts of your trees lay
legion under the sands
like so many obscene gestures.
She does not come to visit you,
She spurns your haunts,
she blows you off.
Damn Sahel... you and your cousins.
(Stop Stop Stop)
She moves on, to greener pastures:
archipelagos and sargosian seas.
She lays-hold of her security
— that great, bearless expanse
stretching, as it does,
from Cape to Cape to Cape —
as she walks her way around.
She is confident on the waters,
crossing with ease.
But not always crossing,
She visits the islands of the seas
bare-foot and sodden.
She likes the coasts
and is not wont to cross a continent.
This poem about various winds and storm tracks was started a couple years back, then finished yesterday. It's been so long since I've written poetry, that I've missed it.
Hopefully it was worth the wait. It certainly was for me.