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.