I often ask the wind
Why he spends much time whistling
Disquieting the serene seasons
And throwing a storm during warmth.
I often challenge the sun
For being so bright and harsh
That in his kindness, he screams
Until all we have left is skin.
I often criticise the cold
For being so forceful in his days
That he breathes in minty air
And expels farts that trigger cough.
In the end, I am just like them
Never so gently, eager to move on
Hungry for action, never lacking passion
Even my days don’t define calm.