Tired of negotiating with the hysteria of wildflowers, I eat the buttercups. They taste like their name. I feel innocent for getting what I want. An oatmeal cookie is basically breakfast. I miss winter, when I thought I was the only one who noticed the world was beautiful, and pocketed the color of dead grass in the snow. I keep whispering, I’m no one, wishing it to be true. Like the honesty of soil which does no wrong. Something good, even.

weather is sun. rain or the lack of it. who notices the drought and why. weather is change. weather is bright spring wind, which I wish for and then it comes. which comes because I wished it. weather is the number of puddles. the insects who breed in them. the frequency of summer’s humming. air moving from one place to another, the electric meetings between heat and more heat. weather is the color of the sky and what it means. the time of day or the dark cloth that’s pulled on after the day. weather is if we can see the stars, and how many. weather is when the frogs sing of subterranean water. weather is the shape of light through the branches. what the birds are building their nests out of, and which birds, and are there as many as last year. the flowers’ slow motion applause. should I be more specific? I mean bloodroot, trillium, bluebell, ragwort, sundrop. weather is if you can picture them when you hear their names.

If you pluck all the stamens from the lilies, then I will fold the windows for the night. Last week I restrung the power lines, so I would appreciate if you kept them in tune. Thank you for trimming the waters. I emptied all the old blues. Next time, please keep our mornings in order. Let’s renew the creaks in our floorboards soon. One of us should eat these overripe dreams, they are making the kitchen smell sweet. I noticed you changed the direction of the breeze, and the sound it makes. And replaced the violets with violets. I promise I’ll wash the earth til it gleams. Tonight, I’ll carry our words upstairs, where the quiet is dark and clean. Thankfully, someone already swept the crescent. It must have been you.