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Harsh Climate

The poplars outside,
jeweled with fluttering emerald,
are beautiful despite the maddened clouds
and heated tempest wind that mock them.
You imagine that the sound of the leaves'
frenetic, fidgety clapping is, instead,
light, lustful laughter,
creating the version of beauty that appeases you.

The perfection of your nature
does not allow for stormy skies or bloody sunsets.
When the light glows as green as a bottle of absinthe,
you are only able to see its beauty,
never daunted or inclined to run for cover.
This funnel will pass, as it always does.

The strangeness of this conflict of conditions
never seems to mess your hair or dampen your will.
The fire you have burning, continues to crack and spit,
at times, in my face,
whilst mine hisses and sighs,
coughing heavy, defeated smoke.

Even with open eyes
you are blinded to the truth.
You’ve little thirst, despite the open water,
and the gleam of the tides inhibits your good vision,
leaving me to flounder.
Though I say the water's warm,
you stand smiling, on the sand.

You never seem to ask about the weather,
making the assumption that the river runs swift and smooth, underneath a sheath of glass.
In this savoury utopia, the sun warms the gentle currents,
creating shimmers and sparkles,
like summer nighttime constellations.

I’ve been tossed and turned like a bottle in the waves,
bobbing up,
then down,
seeking the refuge of the shore.
I dream of you, with hand outreached,
the pearls of rain dripping from your face,
plucking me up from the cold,
liquid failings in which I’m flailing and wailing.

I seem to lack the stamina to endure the frigid elements,
while you tend to thrive and blossom,
rooting yourself in the soil.
Your thirst is quenched from the ground on which you stand,
your hunger sated by your own imagination,
while I wither and fade beside you.

I remember planting the seedlings
in the rich, dark chocolate earth.
Our bond, in open air,
was meant to flourish and bear sweet fruit.
Why is it that when the clouds gather
to shout and scold, spraying acid on our efforts,
I am alone in hunting for the shield?

You thunder in heated exasperation
as to why I don’t tell you it’s raining.
The answer is, to me,
as mild as looking out the window
or standing in my shadow.
If you still find you’re impervious
to the realities of harsher climate,
you need only ask me if it’s cold or wet where I am.

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Rudyard Kipling

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