Fair Weather

Sun's slivers peek through the brightening canopy

and puddles turn to Lilliputian lakes.
Flower shake water from their hard,
cool baths, strectching, catching rays
to dry their rain drenched leaves.

She still sees blackening horizons.

There will be no blue skies here, only
the far off thunder of the next accusation,
lighting flashes of insinuation, ever-growing
lists of things she could have, should have,

did not do.

This is not the season of the fair weather,
rather the dark hours of his verging
dis-content, when absense of the pocket
jingle bodes ominous tides in coming days.

She tiptoes round her clear sky lover

noticing cataracts clouding eyes, navigating rocks
as rancor surges rapid in his monsoon orbs.
He adored her in the rosy dawn of Sprintime
meadows, heady kisses stolen in a blissful moment
cornicopia ever full and spilling out upon the table.

Throwing seed away while others planted

leaving fields fallow in the Summer's heat;
remnants of the Autumn harvest bent and sickened
like the ever shrinking larde behind pantry doors.
But still he twirled her, dancing 'neat the soltice
night, whispering assurances under spells of July moon.

And now she is his reason and his damning blame

His summer sunshine smile shrinks in this land of rain...