Condensed water vapor collects in the troposphere. Clouds, if you want to name the phenomenon. Sometimes, it's nice to not name things. Just let it be what it is. Condensed water vapor in the troposphere.

You can't see it from my vantage point. In the center most point of the deep, dark woods. It could be sunny up there, above the tree line. That's for the birds to know. I watch them, and their behavior lets me know, a storm is coming.

They sing of the storm. They sing in the storm. They sing to the storm, even. I should transform my heart to a bird that it may sing through the clouds gathered around. A storm is coming. It won't be in the troposphere this time. It will be in the center most point of my heart. One lightening strike to take my life, a second to restart it. How much electricity can I handle? How many lightening strikes are destined for me?

I close my eyes to gather strength. To shift perspective. I can hear the rainfall, but the canopy keeps the drops from wetting my face. My face becomes wet anyway. Stormy thoughts fall from my eyes in their own silent deluge. I open my heart to the song of sorrow, and let it sing away my troubles. Somehow, I feel stronger.

I continue to listen. The storm is steady, increasing in strength, perhaps. But I feel ready to face it. I just have to remember the way out of the woods.

Dear Weather, I looked out my window this morning, and noticed that it was pouring rain. I decided that it looked like a good day for a book. I curled up on the couch with a book, a cup of coffee, a blanket and a pillow. An hour into the book, I looked up and saw the sun shining. So I headed outside, with my stuff, and hung up my hammock. I got comfortable and sipped from a thermos of lemonade. But soon the wind picked up, and the air got cold. So, I gathered up my things and headed back inside. A bit later the snow began to fall. I made a cup of hot cocoa and loafed on the couch, reading again. The snow stopped, and the rain began to pour down. Then the sun came out and it was 70 degrees out. I have one thing to say to you: Make up your mind, Weather! Is it Winter, Spring or Summer?!? Choose one, and stick with it!

Sincerely,

ThatGirlAJ

P.S. I would prefer Spring or Summer.

It's dark here in Florida.

The crickets are chirping full force, the mosquitos are biting without restraint, the frogs are croaking for a mate, the trucks are barrelling down the dirt road, and I'm sitting here, listening to it all.

Not many people enjoy Florida, when they actually live here.

Most times, I don't either, but there's something about it at night that brings peace to me.

Maybe it's the factors above. Maybe it's the dewy humidity that can linger any time of year, especially in spring and summer. Maybe it's the stars I love to look at, the open sky giving me a glimpse of the Milky Way and if I'm lucky, a shooting star for only a brief moment.

The weather isn't ideal. I get bitten by bugs and flown at and scrutinized.

But I love it.

There's so much to find in darkness if only we look for it.

This post was meant to ask about the weather I'm dealing with right now.

Well, this is mine.

Darkness, without silence.

Humidity, without blistering heat.

Sky, without clouds.

Peace, without war.

It's raining here too. I'm not complaining, though it's unfortunate for those who've planned the Parade down in the city today - I'm not sure if it'll be cancelled, or if it'll go ahead with a lowered attendance.

Here in Bendigo, every Easter a Chinese Dragon dances through the city streets. I loved th8s spectacle as a child, especially the firecrackers going off alongside the dragon.

Why a Chinese Dragon? A few hundreds years back, Bendigo had a gold rush, in fact the city was once the wealthiest in the world, apparently. Many folks from around the world flocked here, including the Chinese. Some decided to stay, and their influence is still felt today.

You can find a Chinese cemetery in Bendigo, and many superb Chinese restaurants, though I suppose that's not such a surprise.

As I look outside my window, salty tears gushing down my face, I notice something.

It's snowing.

I watch as the virgin snow plummets into a pile of melting ice, resting its head against the bruised, blemished street as it embraces the timid but warm atmosphere. I watch as the snow engulfs the thick, once-naked trees in a reflective variation of white, and I watch as it dances in a choreographed waltz along the branches before settling between the wood’s gashes.

The view is breathtaking.

Interiors flooded with blue tears

and ...

No chance of a spring in my step

Burried

Under a sleet of white

the butter cup hides

Firey amber skies

in the West

Mr. Sun

is glad to be gone

Slippery slopes of past fights

And

Memories of Boots tracking

in slush to the kitchen

I cry when

I see his footprint is all he left behind

The forecast is dismal

I wish my heart

was

I moved to California because I couldn’t survive one more Boston winter. So much snow I couldn’t open my front door. Imagine having more than demons keeping you locked inside.

Today it is raining in California. My mood rocks slowly like a cradle, the wind deciding which direction I’m headed. Melancholy is a toxic friendship.

I crave sunshine. It dictates my head space. I see my reflection in muddy puddles; perhaps I’m still stuck in the mud, but I’m slowly pulling myself out.

Mike could not believe his eyes. As he looked out of his window he could see fires everywhere in the distance. The wind was howling as it helped the fires spread, destroying everything in their path. Homes and other structures were being erased. Days later, after the fires had been brought under control there was green everywhere. Mike began to wonder is the fire a bad thing or is it doing what it is supposed to by cleansing the ground. Are we actually the ones that are in its way?

Can I feel your heart?

The beats moved swiftly and rhythmically, trying to match my levels of exhilaration. She pressed her ear against my chest and a slight smile appeared on her lips, sending me warmth and the beat of my heart rose to crescendo.

There’s no beginning and there is no end to this story. Perhaps I shouldn’t call it a story or a poem. I sometimes refer to it as a stream of consciousness, a form my emotions seem to take when unable to find a vessel but in need of spilling out. Cascading words spewing out and foreboding love with an urgency to be heard.

I went to a psychologist the other day and she told me my heart was beating far too fast. She prescribed various sedatives, but none of them seemed to leave any effects. I’ve gotten pretty fond of my fast beating heart and I now often lay my hand atop my chest and feel the shape of the organ as it jumps in and out of my chest in an attempt to escape. The noise it makes as it pounds, almost a song my insides made just for her. I listen to it everynight in an attempt to slumber and yearn it’ll prompt my brain for dreams of her.

It was silent.

The only sounds bouncing off the walls in search of echo was the thunderstorm. We didn’t seem to notice it, or maybe we did, but didn’t care enough to process the memory. Heavy raindrops pattered against her window and a soft rumble sent the room in vibration. A flicker of light gleamed to her eyes. They were dark, but made me feel heavy and riddled. Like I was blocked and sent on a search for understanding. The light flicker unlocked a type of beauty a human eye must never see. Maybe this is love. I neglected time and stared into that second for eternity. The flicker of a second, so beautiful the ways her eyes shone, I had my mind freeze the time.

I want to see her.

The room was dark and we relied on our senses; I closed my eyes, letting the darkness in.

Our hands entangled in a need for connection and her fingers rubbed against my palm. Under mountains of blankets, our bare skin pressed against one another in need of warmth and vulnerability. She smelled sweet and warm, kind of like cocoa butter, but instead, something unique and just for her. I grazed my lips against her neck and kissed her. I whispered This is love and lightning struck.

Whenever loneliness eases in, like water slipping through cracks, I find myself writing to her. Maybe it’s a device of recollection, or maybe an emotion follows, so harsh, it must be let out.

The lighting struck, the thunder rumbled, and my heart pounds.

The rain hasn’t stopped.

Sleep now hounds me and although I long for thoughts of her… well… goodnight.

I love the rain.