Portrait of a Lady with Hay Fever

the weather warms and i am become pythia: 
oracle of spring, prophetess of pollen,
delphic diviner of dander and spore count

i stare watery-eyed into my crystal ball
of benadryl, heavy-limbed,
lost in strange dreams and portents

by morning i am again a sniffling 
canary, a soothsayer drowned in kleenex, 
this snotted sea of crumpled white

say the heavens lie sleeping —
i’ll sneeze loud enough to rattle the gods!