Powder Keg

The weather here is fickle.
One moment it is springtime in January.
The next it is snowing in March.
The changes come more quickly than that,
a sudden switch from green to gray
taking place between days, minutes.
No one can know how to dress,
and we leave our houses in short sleeves
to find the world has frozen.
We forgetfully wear sweaters in the searing
heat. We wear layers, shed, add, as needed.
Most find it unnerving, the inconsistency
a memory of migration. Constantly being kept
on our toes is disquieting, as if we've been flung
out of the womb, weened, fallen out
of our mothers' arms in less than half a lifetime.
It is a great feeling of betrayal,
this being left out in the cold.
And the heat. And the desert.
And the sleetful rain.

What I don't want to admit is that I find
a small spark-filled moment in between switches
that sounds like slithery blood sliding through
veins. It sounds green like life. Up and down
like pulse. The weather here swings wide
open. It is what makes light of dark.