Size / / /

is in a warehouse

down by the Red Cedar River,

a hangar with adiabatic racks

for stratifying stratus,

separating cirrus, stretching them out,

icing them down,

back stage steam machines

for accumulating cumulus,

mending the worn ones,

stuffing and fluffing,

puffing them up, bleaching them out.

There's lightning practice center stage

and sound-proofed practice rooms

where cumulonimbus

learn vigorous, squall lines

essential for bombastic rhetoric

and vocal techniques

for effective, long-lasting, rumbilious thunder.

Personal weather

is de rigueur for poets this year.

I dragged my cloud down to the shop this morning,

paid the extra hundred for priority service,

but it won't be done 'til Monday—

something about resilvering the lining.

That's why I'm wearing last year's

sunbeams, hemlines a bit uneven;

do you think anyone will notice?




Sandra J. Lindow (lindowleaf@gmail.com) lives on a hilltop in Menomonie, Wisconsin, where she teaches, writes, edits, and competes with wildlife for rights to her vegetables and perennials. She has six books of poetry. The Hedge Witch's Upgrade, her seventh book, is presently in the production process. Read more at www.wfop.org/poets/lindowsa.html. You can find more of her past work in our archives.
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19 Feb 2024

That was Father—a storm in a drought, a comet in the night. Acting first, thinking later, carried on not by foresight, but on luck’s slippery feet. And so we were not as surprised as we should have been when, one warm night in our tenth year on the mountain, Father showed us the flying machine.
The first time I saw stone and Bone in ocean
This is it. This is the decision that keeps you up at night.
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