Weather & More
Inside, it smells like cinnamon tea,
like lavender nights and salt from the sea.
The shelves are stacked with jars and flasks,
with handwritten tags and curious tasks.
“Sunshine in Spoonfuls — Limit Two,”
“Clouds for Daydreams — Light and Blue,”
“Wind for Kites — Handle with Care,”
and “Snowflakes Custom-Made to Pair.”
The shopkeeper’s name is Miss Juniper Wren,
she’s been ninety for decades, or maybe just ten.
Her hair is a halo of static and gray,
and she hums like it’s always a holiday.
She’ll greet you kindly, ask what you need:
“Rain for a garden? A fog for a read?
Need lightning to spark up a poem or two?
We’ve got thunder in jars and fresh morning dew.”
Children come in with their pockets of change,
trading old buttons and feathers for strange
little pouches of summer to hide in their drawers,
or breezes to blow under closed classroom doors.
Librarians buy quiet snowfall for nooks,
and sailors buy wind that remembers old books.
A baker once bought the scent of a storm—
her bread rose wild, her kitchen stayed warm.
Miss Wren never rushes, she always has time,
for questions, or stories, or riddles that rhyme.
She says weather is more than just sun or rain
it’s memory, mystery, joy, and pain.
“Storms help the flowers,
and sunshine can fade.
The sky holds your stories
long after they’ve played.”
No one quite knows how the little shop stays,
but it’s always been there through decades and days.
So if you find life has grown heavy or slow,
take a walk past the bend
where the wild marigolds grow.
There’s a jar on the shelf
with your name in fine gold,
and a forecast of wonder
just waiting to unfold.
Stay Weird. Love you. Mean it.
—No Apologies Just Stories.