Time the Weather Vane

poem

Photo by Jordan Ladikos on Unsplash

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As August burns, let us praise
the calendar's forthcoming turn
into late September and early

October—into the crisp days
and colder nights where all of us
dress in layers so that we can don

and remove clothing as needed
to moderate our temperature.
As I move into my life's autumn,

I miss the reservation autumns
of my childhood. I miss the joy
and fear that defines who I was

as an Indian kid—a boy too
peaceful to be a warrior and too
angry to be at peace. I burned

like August and I consoled
like October. And ain't it funny
to realize that October almost

rhymes with bipolar. Ah,
yes, I'm the manic-depressive
human who is a fraternal twin

of weather. Perhaps you live
like this, too, holding 
your hand in the air

like a barometer, hoping
that you can accurately 
predict which season

will come for you, whether
you'll be possessed by August,
blessed by October,

or collapsed by the ten feet
of December that has accumulated 
on the roof of your soul.