My love for you is greater than the science of weather.
I was born under a darkened sky of twisting weather.
Before going to the mountains, going to the ocean
we ignore the sky, check electronics for the weather.
My love, your heart beats with the constancy of a cloud,
your lips sting like winter rain. It is you I weather.
The sunflower blooms, a fallen angel’s halo, displaced
heavenly body, much like you, left on Earth to wither.
The estate sale over, porcelain figurines, photo albums, set
on the curb, unwanted memories offered to the weather.
To be loved imperfectly, from time to time forgotten, dismissed,
undesired even when dressed in crystals is to be like the weather.
My father taught me to sit the thunderstorm in reverie, in worship
on the front porch, to bow as a tree while the ground grew wetter.
Should you find Excalibur thrust into stone, remove her, yes her,
with a gentle touch, not a forceful glove. Rhythmically whet her.
We planted our bodies as roots on a street corner, grown tall but lithe,
branches laced together, there is no storm we cannot weather.
Lacie Semenovich is the author of a chapbook, Legacies (Finishing Line Press). Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Barrelhouse, MOBIUS, Kansas City Voices, Jet Fuel Review, The Ghazal Page, Leveler, Muddy River Poetry Review, B O D Y, and other journals.