Curtains drawn against the roaring wind,

Planting seeds of calmness deep within.

Umbrella dreams, raincoats for the mind—

Forecasts change, but some clouds are kind.

I build my weather out of gentle noise,

Shelter made from secondhand joys.

Each breath a season, every sigh a storm—

Some days I’m winter, some days I’m warm.

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Forecast from the heart—

Isolated showers, sunlight torn apart.

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Microclimates in my soul,

Shifting gently, never whole.

Inside, I grow a weather map

Where blue skies and worries overlap.

Microclimates, fragile zones—

Every shadow, every glow.

What the world can’t see, I hide

Under shifting clouds inside.

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Tea on the stove, thunder on the news,

I chase the forecast, pick which mood to use.

Sometimes I’m a drought, sometimes a flood—

Sheltered in silence, safe from the mud.

Mirrors reflect the storms I rearrange,

Greenhouse of memories nobody can change.

Tiny solstice in the palm of my hand—

Trying to find sunlight where I stand.

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Forecast from my eyes—

Scattered joy and cloudy lies.

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Microclimates in my soul,

Every color, every role.

Underneath the pouring rain,

I’m a hundred skies again.