next to the polished card table,
It hangs with hands
imperceptably shuddering.
Between the clouds and rain
it shivers. And when summer comes
it glides frankly towards sunny
spells with a hint of a drizzle.
When the air turns about,
gusts from the South,
dampness rises
from the meadow and wood.
The atmosphere becomes
a static bomb on the verge.
Its hands edge
towards a storm undeclared.
After pelts of water and hail
the cycle resumes.
©susanbauryrouchard