Once a favorite conversation piece, <br />now something more like a disease. <br /> <br />A weathervane sings, a wind chime clangs. <br />It’s December, only a slight silver breeze, <br /> <br />but already I’m imagining the tangled <br />metal of cars, birds falling from the trees. <br /> <br />My therapist says fear is normal, <br />that it’s simply a matter of degrees, <br /> <br />the brain has an internal mechanism, <br />she says, a switch that flicks on and off with ease. <br /> <br />I imagine a kind of silver machine <br />in my brain, humming like a hive of bees, <br /> <br />fear hopping from synapse to synapse <br />like some sort of electric, Post-modern flea. <br /> <br />Each day I swallow my grief like a pill, <br />ignore my therapist’s advice, my wife’s pleas. <br /> <br />I wait for the sky to fall, longing for the days <br />when wind was only wind, trees only trees.<br /><br />Chris Tusa<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fear-of-weather/
