Climate Change

In winter, my father climbed our steeply pitched roof with a shovel, almost as dexterous as a goat. We kids dug endless marble tunnels—warm as igloos—in drifts that the morning plow pushed against our fences. Now I have forsaken the country of snow. The view from my terrace is like a museum diorama of the Mesozoic. I step barefoot through sliding glass onto Spanish tile to watch the downpour, a window of water flowing inches from my face.

waiting for the rainbow
I dream
of ice caps melting


4 Responses

  1. mpaone Says:

    Beautiful!

  2. Lynne Rees Says:

    Lovely motif of movement right the way through this. Very emotive and sensory.

  3. papagreenbean Says:

    Wow, "I dream of ice caps melting" is awesome good. The juxtaposition with "waiting for the rainbow" works very well—especially after the prose piece to begin.

  4. janewilliams Says:

    This flowed beautifully – the once changing seasons, now changeable, interchangeable …

    early spring a blade of grass butterflies

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