They breathe a climate
that never storms…
air-conditioned summers,
doors swinging open
like obedient weather vanes.
Keys fall into their palms
like rain that never dries,
their houses warmed
by ancestral sunlight,
their names stitched
into the forecast of calm.
We climb in hail,
our fingers raw
on rungless ladders,
lungs filling with sleet
as roofs cave in above us.
Their children inherit
a horizon without thunder,
while ours inherit hunger…
the roof torn off,
the lightning that strikes
without warning,
and still we crawl toward shelter
with frostbitten hands.
They look at us
and see only
our slow arrival,
never the storm
that followed us in.
- UpsilonA
❤️🍥