The Weathers That Never Loved Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Spindling its cleverness, the weather of such joy uncoils,
And you can see it through the living room’s
House,
How the guts of the world spills like tin trumpets in the
Deeply saturated field,
Hoodwinked by brothers who are at war with themselves,
Clouded with passengers,
As the green horns and the coral snakes roil; and I suppose
There is some mountain far away parked straight against
A sea,
And there are little houses up her slopes filled with little
Girls who never even saw the weathers that never loved me.