We borrow the language of weather to describe what we can’t explain in ourselves. We say stormy relationship, clouded judgment, cold shoulder, flood of memories.
Even when change arrives too suddenly, we have a name for it somewhere in the weather dictionary. Let’s kick off this week of weather with our first word in the series of meteorological metaphors.
Found where the sea leaves its secrets behind. They’re the homes once worn by soft-bodied creatures like mollusks and snails. What remains is a hard spiral archive that's shaped by growth, salt, and time. I guard the soft with walls of stone, Carried by tides, yet never
A fruit that wears its symmetry like an armour. Look closely and you’ll see spirals turning both ways, a geometry hiding in plain sight. Tropical heart with a crown of green, My golden lattice holds a pattern unseen. Count the spirals left and right, Which fruit grows numbers in
They live by sunlight and mathematics, weaving sweetness into structure. They build with geometry, not guesswork. Their homes hum with arithmetic and scent, every cell measured to fit the next. The precise pattern repeats as if nature were dreaming in hexagons. No ruler, no compass, no measured decree, Yet perfect
A sequence that teaches numbers to lean on each other. One step born from the last two. It shows up in seed-heads and staircases of leaves, and once tried to count rabbits into infinity. I’m not a spiral, yet I make them grow, A tally of turns that petals