We issue small blasphemies
when weather palls, changing from what we
prefer to rain or to sunshine,
perhaps to snow, peculiarities
of cloud casting gloom, or this
stark light on a wet road.
Our skin likes the weather it likes,
drawn in, mingling with our blood
and the windlessness of pulse.
So how, then, can we somehow mind
when Spring edges it's white lines of crocus
beside the salted roads,
sparrows foraging for twigs,
a confusion of pigeons dancing?