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For some people,
the constant impermanence of the weather
is oppressive.

The Buddhists say this impermanence is the cause of suffering.
Not me;
I say impermanence is our Mother,
squeezing her breasts at Earth’s gaping mouth,
nourishing a land parched by the second dimension.

The few may call me oppressive.
I am the weather:
constantly impermanent,
absolutely undependable.
I cast my beauty into spaciousness,
where nothing resides
except possibility.














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Comments

The following comments are for "The weather’s always changing ‘round here"
by imagecarver

Big Mama
I really like this poem - it's thoughtful, deep, and with beautiful turns of images.

I'm not familiar with the term "Indian vapors". Mist hanging in the mountains? I'd like to know.

I liked the basically simple language but it made the word "excoriated" kind of go clunk - not the most poetically pleasing word.

Really good poem.

( Posted by: gomarsoap [Member] On: February 9, 2005 )





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