What is My Favorite Type of Weather? #poetry

What is your favorite type of weather?

The Question That Waits

They ask me,
in a voice that smells of coffee and morning paper,
"What is your favorite type of weather?"

I do not answer right away.
Some questions demand a pause,
a breath held between the ribs
like a secret still learning how to whisper.

I roll the question on my tongue,
taste it like rain collecting in the hollow of my palm,
feel it shift shapes, slip through cracks,
rearrange itself in unfamiliar constellations.

What do they want to hear?
The expected romance of spring?
The summer's careless laughter?
The comfort of winter’s white hush?
Or the autumn that crumbles like an old love letter
no one dared to send?

My mind stretches across seasons,
stitching together moments that never touched:
a barefoot dance in monsoon puddles,
the ache of heat pressing against my skin,
the way the first snowfall turns a city into silence,
the whispering decay of leaves that forget their own names.

I could answer simply.
I could pick a season like a fruit off a shelf.
But I do not believe in favorites.
I believe in the in-between,
in the shift, in the becoming.

So I let the question rest.
Let it settle like dust on an old window,
waiting for the wind to come
and decide its fate.

The Rain That Spits Back

I step outside, tongue wide open,
catching the spit of the sky like a laughing child
who does not yet know the world coughs back
when you least expect it.

The concrete sings in sharp hisses,
steam unspooling in ghostly ribbons,
while the earth, in her cracked-lip thirst,
gulps down the deluge like a drunk old poet.

I see a man with a broken umbrella—
or perhaps it’s a wounded bird—
dragging itself down the alley,
its bones clicking, wings shaking
like the twitch of an untied shoelace.

In rain, everyone is a little softer.
A little undone.
A little more like a whisper that
forgot to reach its own lips.

Someone told me once—
maybe in a dream, maybe in a memory—
that the first rain
is the taste of a newborn’s first cry
falling back to earth,
a recycled gasp
from lungs that no longer exist.

The wind slaps my face,
cackles into my ear:
“You are not yet wet enough.”

I laugh back,
but it comes out as thunder.

Summer’s Sirens

Do you know the sound of summer melting?
It is the sound of heat waves warping the air
until time itself liquefies,
pooling into roadside mirages,
tricking the eyes into believing
the world is an ocean
when it is only a kiln.

Somewhere in the distance,
children stretch their arms toward the sun,
catching the golden sweat dripping from its pores.
They chew it like candy.
They swallow it like a dare.
Their laughter crackles against the pavement,
but I cannot tell if it is joy or defiance.

I watch the trees hold their breath,
waiting for a breeze that never comes.
I hold my own,
wondering how long it takes
for the body to forget what coolness feels like.

Even the birds hesitate—
their songs wilting midair,
their wings sticking to the sky
like abandoned kites.

Summer is the season
where I dream of ice melting in my palm,
watching it shrink to a teardrop,
to a whisper,
to nothing.

But I do not cry.
The sun has already stolen the salt from me.

The Winter That Betrays

Frost has fingers.
It curls them around your bones,
knocks on the doors of your skin
like a stranger you once loved
but do not recognize anymore.

I watch the snow curl up on the ground,
an exhausted dancer lowering herself
into a shroud of silk.
She is beautiful,
but I have seen beauty before.
It never stays long.

Somewhere, icicles sharpen themselves into knives.
Somewhere, a child breathes onto a window,
watching their breath vanish,
trying to prove they exist.
Somewhere, a man with no gloves
counts his regrets in shivers.

Winter has always been
a season of betrayal.
It promises warmth in hands clasped together
but forgets to mention
how quickly touch turns to fire,
how easily skin breaks
when kissed too long by the cold.

I hear the wind again—
not a whisper, not a slap,
but something more sinister,
like a promise made under duress.

I pull my coat tighter.
The chill only laughs.

The Forgotten Autumn

No one talks about autumn.
They call it transition,
a hallway between exhale and inhale,
a flickering light bulb waiting to decide
if it will shine or die.

But I see it.
I see the trees unclench their fists,
tossing their golden coins into the wind
like gamblers who know the game is rigged.
I see the sky hesitate,
unsure whether to hold its breath
or let go.

The leaves fall like burnt pages,
stories too dangerous to be kept,
secrets spilling from the lips of the branches.
I want to gather them,
to read what the trees are trying to forget.

I walk through the crunch of decay,
listening to the language of ruin,
the slow, unhurried sigh of the inevitable.

Somewhere, a crow watches me.
Somewhere, a river swallows a memory whole.
Somewhere, someone asks:

“What is your favorite type of weather?”

The Answer That Escapes

I try to answer,
but the words shift,
melting like ice,
dissolving like fog,
scattering like leaves caught in an indifferent gust.

I think of the first time I kissed the rain,
the way heat carved constellations into my skin,
the sharp bite of winter’s betrayal,
the slow sigh of autumn folding in on itself.

Each season is a wound.
Each season is a song.
Each season is a question
that never expects an answer.

I look at the one who asked,
their breath waiting, suspended,
their eyes filled with the soft patience of dawn.

I open my mouth,
but the wind steals my words.

And somewhere, somewhere—
a storm begins to form.

#Poetry #Seasons #Weather #Rain #Summer #Winter #Autumn #Philosophy #Expression #AbstractArt #Nature