In honor of the wonky weather that is Spring here, a poem written for one of Wild Poetry Forum's challenges.
(after Rebecca Hoogs)
My dear, you are the meteorologist and I,
I am the weather, a cyclone churning off shore,
skipping across carefully plotted points
on well creased maps. To hell
with ratings and reputation. It's not
like you cause the tempest or the cold
shoulder, the run on milk and bread,
eggs. Still, it would always be best
if you waited for me to declare my intentions,
stick your head out the studio window
and agree. Yup, she's a doozy. That's right.
Right as rain. The rain I fell in
this morning while you flirted
with long range models, certain
tools in uncertain systems. No pressure,
but the superintendent's on the line, baby,
and my winds carry the fervent prayers
of schoolchildren everywhere, homework undone.
If you smile into the camera, bet
on a solid six to ten, I'll pout
and head off to sea or maybe just sit tight,
ignore the curses of weary plow drivers hours
from sleep and warmth, strand even you
at your desk. But once in a blue moon, I promise
to track exactly the way you expect.