CONFESSION NUMBER TWO

Sometimes the cloudless sky bluer than any crayon,
the sky they come from Canada and Oshkosh to enjoy
and go back home to say how perfect it all is all the time
and how wonderful it would be to live in such a place
where birthday parties and weddings and even strolls
along the river or beside the surging sea can happen
with no forethought or nagging dread about weather
turning suddenly vicious or even mildly dramatic ever,
the brilliant azure sky even without the polarizing filter
gnaws at something in me and I hear the faintest growl
from somewhere deep in my head or maybe lower down
beginning small and indistinct before it grows into insistent
wanting need that cannot be denied by switching channels.

I want rain accompanied by lightening and thunder so loud
my bones will shake, my shoulders will hunch instinctively
from some long ago memory of having almost lost everything...
and wind, I want wind to drive me to shelter from the storm,
insistent storm, lashing storm, cleansing storm, beautiful storm,
storm to force my inmost self to reorganize, start over again.