we forfeit our weight to her wind

that rips and binds and bites. her

sleet stings like thistle bushes in a

dry heat and her clouds, they

 

scream – they cry out from heights

that loom and the world at once

cowers. she is all too much for

one sky. yet onward still we face

 

her piercing grey, dare to stick

out our tongues, eyes closed,

gathering her blood by the drop.

we are afraid to admit we need her.

 

she spans a whole atmosphere, casts

tendrils of white-hot light that bite the

air and make you question what

exactly it is about her that you fear.