Poetry Month – April 22, 2022

As a New England girl, reading the weather is essential to survival.


She was my sun.
I watched her from my crib
a blanket on the floor
my highchair perch
best of all, from her lap.
The closer to her, the warmer I was.
But when her hazel green eyes turned brown and dull
and her sighs sounded a storm rolling in
I hid in my closet
listening for the quiet,
waiting for the skies to clear.
I read every  pressure change in her skin.
She was my barometer
My indicator of fair skies.
I trailed her,
the last of her four children,
chanting like a drunken sailor
pick me up.

©Lindsey Lane