There is a trap underneath your sunny weather condition.
It’s a sweet nature direct intervention
Meteorologists like to call inversion.
An euphemism, for sure, when you think of
Lapislazulean sky that stretches above your head
And leaks into snow-capped mountain peaks
While the cold air is huddling and piling beneath.
Cubic feet of it trapped below Rendezvous Summit
And its toasty atmosphere. I want to adhere
To the notion it has nothing to do with our
Disposition, but it does. The cold air is an inmate
Locked up in the basement cell: trapped down
The layer of warmth, swarming under the puffy cloud.
We hold on to the tip of the iceberg for warmth,
Let the chill scratch itching feet.