Mother of Pearl

I live in perfectly good weather;
Yet on April afternoons, I'm sure
I will yearn for rain torrential
Whirlwinds and broken boughs
Of middle aged drumstick trees.
And roads laden with layers and layers
Of leaves, of all colors, brown, yellow
And black. Tremendous clouds in the sky
Colored like the Mother of Pearl
Impending and grey premonsoon.
Gusts of sea breeze, blowing apart
Our calmly gathered selves.

In May, the summers that bake you
That turn the house into an oven
And start distant forest fires
The floor that burns your feet
Eyes see the chimeras at noon
In Forty Eight degrees of Celsius
Dust and more apocalyptic dust
Thirst and buttermilk, and sugarcane juice
And endless bike rides to nowhere
Except an orangish red hot sky
Mangoes in full bloom, almost rotting
Everything so hot that it skins your soul
Feels like retribution for being merely human

I live in perfectly good weather.
But I miss the heat and the rain.
Call me crazy, yeah