Hands Full of Weather

Hands Full of Weather

I wake with thunderstorms in wrists, with drizzle in my knees,

a barometer behind my eyes that never quite agrees.

You ask me how I’m doing, and I answer, “More or less,”

but both my palms are full of skies I haven’t learned to press.

~~

One hand keeps a humid grief that fogs the smallest chore,

The other clutches scattered sun I spill across the floor.

Some days I drop a shower when I only meant a sigh;

Some days I need an umbrella just to make it through “I’m fine.”

~~

I’ve shaken hands with lightning bolts that never reached the ground,

felt static crawl my fingertips and hum without a sound.

I’ve carried wind that changed its mind in half a single breath,

and gentle snow that soothed the burn and then melted into the depth.

~~

The forecasts on my phone insist on partly cloudy sane.

But knuckles know when pressure falls and knits itself to pain.

My weather is an honest mess, a storm that doesn’t warn—

a pocket full of broken fronts, a private, moving tear.

~~

Yet you reach out and cup my rain like it’s a sacred tea,

You let my crosswinds braid your hair; you stand inside with me.

You do not ask my sky to clear or force a borrowed hue;

You simply say, “Whatever comes, I’ll share the storm with you.”

~~

So if my fingers smell of hail or warm like sudden June,

if thunder lives beneath my nails or grief sings out of tune,

know this: I’m learning how to hold my climate without fear.

to plant a little garden in the chaos I revere—

~~

To pour the flood on thirsty ground, to let the tempests sever

the things that never rooted deep—my hands full of weather,

now open, not to drown what’s near but gently, slowly prove

that even hearts that house a storm can learn to let things bloom.