Atmospheric pressure leans into ribs
and shoulders. The weight of seasons
out of time and place
I drift between rooms, recreating steps
tracing runes in the grout of kitchens
and bathrooms
I am the weight of my favorite season
unable to slow or catch my breath
in everything new and everything old.
Today’s weather is an itch to scratch
under clothes and over roads.
Out of time and place
one can find something
they didn’t mean to.
