To Know Which Way the Wind Blows

 

Go away, harbingers of doubt,

meteorologists with your named storms,

 

anxiety—I don’t want you on TV.

Stop making conversation with yourself,

 

you alone clever enough to get your jokes.

Stop pointing at your blank green backdrop.

 

I’m through being another stock character

in disaster novels you write nightly.

 

Let me enjoy the moon while it smiles,

before it plucks a breadcrumb from its beard.

 

I want to walk out with a sense of mystery,

then watch snow with its tranquility.

 

Don’t deny me surprise. You swear it comes

to kill me while I sleep. I never do.