Sonnet

Weather. Man.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

I now see the many kinds of weather that occupy my soul — the clear space where the what of me lives (or not) forever: a wan winter sun into which I stare; or punishing winds that cast me on shores I never thought to see; or sometimes heat so bland and all-encompassing it stores within it Cat 5 hurricanes, replete with howling fear and lightning rage. And though I am frequently daunted by the din, the mirror of my soul remains (I know somehow)—devoid of grace, unknown to sin— the empty glass wherein I, hungry, gaze and seeking self, find only light that plays.