I have received so many offers to do the immoral
That turning them down no longer
Requires any special effort. There is no self sacrifice
In avoiding personal profit from the loose application
Of my weathering craft – only a disbelief
That there are so many who still ask.
Everyone is roiling with endless grudges and
Perceived slights. If I let myself
Dwell on it too long, an ordinary
Afternoon’s collection of moisture will turn
Into my unintended thunderstorm,
Or a snow that batters warm ground too soon.
I am sick with the pettiness.
Like suitors they line up: lightning
Against this competitor, rotting rains
For some angry bastard’s fields, cold
In the old age of a rival. I mutter through
My weather making for myself, settle
My own scores, twist the elements to my own
Tremors and terrors and themes. All of you
Who would want me to visit my worst climates
On those who oppose, vex, or spite you:
I am not taking you seriously.
Never flatter yourself to think that any
Raindrop, to you, is willfully more than random.