Talking About The Weather

I heard the thunder of a lawnmower
churning up an ocean of grass; its salty blades
splayed as I navigated the fault lines of the path.

It was then I saw her - bobbing
between tectonics, afloat on a park bench -
eyes clouded over and far away.

Her red dress was ablaze, flowing over
the curved horizons of her legs;
a sunset split, right down the middle.

Thick, dark hair, curled into waves -
tumbled over the dams of her shoulders
in shimmering floods.

On the bench's arm, her fingers fell
in time - a concert pianist's constant rain.
Not impatient. Just waiting.

I found myself drawn to her strange moon.
My lungs inhaling hurricanes, I found courage;
took a seat at her side.

Suddenly, her sharp gazed turned on me.
Lightning! With a crack, blue forks of her irises
stripped the skin from my tree of bone.

But then she smiled - her lips a cradle
of summer cloud - and said,
"Lovely weather today, isn't it?"