On a half-full day
I stood.
Between a cerulean sky
as if drawn by a child
on thick white bristol-board,
a fresh blue crayon
clutched
in her vicelike fist.
And wind-tousled clouds, scowling down
like dull grey battleships,
a vast armada
forging full-speed-ahead
downwind.
In bare feet, short-sleeves
silly grin,
feeling bone deep warmth
and cool rain.
Which is more like mist
in the gusts of wind
that shift, unpredictably,
as if even the weather
can't decide.
In a sun-shower
you can be an optimist.
The half-full sky
you see coming
from miles upwind,
knowing, in the fullness of time
the sun must shine.
Even someone like me
who finds darkness comforting,
enclosed
by the soft light, low cloud
of half the sky.
Although I am, by nature
a pessimist.
But what's to complain
on half-empty days
caught out in the rain?
The ascetic pleasure
of its cooling cleanse.
The thrill of weather’s
restlessness.
The act of surrender
to forces bigger than me,
so vastly indifferent to us.
This is truly turning out to be the year without summer. The weather report dangles a clear sunny day in front of our eyes. But time after time it turns out to be a moving target. August 8, already: time is running out!
Today, again, mixed sun and cloud turned out to be mostly cloud; and a chance of rain turned out to be 100%. But it was a sun shower day more than all-day rain: a dark foreboding sky that would just as suddenly turn an intensely clear blue; and with that delightful phenomenon of the sun shower -- of cool rain with bone deep sun, so you find yourself instantly dry.
When the metaphor of "half full" and "half empty" occurred to me, I realized the crux of the poem: that I could turn the sky into a rumination on temperament and the half full glass.
So, is a day like this half full, or half empty? Being the inherent pessimist, I suppose I'm obliged to go with the latter. But really, no matter what your temperament, the weather complies: look one way, and the sky is full of storm clouds; turn 180 degrees, and it's a beautiful summer day. Not that it matters if the pessimist's dark prediction is confirmed: so what if you're caught in the rain on this sort of day?!! (Even the pessimist who prefers miserable weather gets to feel triumphally vindicated, his pessimism confirmed: just look up, and he can see more damn sun ...lol!)
Not that you can do anything about it, anyway. One thing weather can be counted upon is to keep us humble: a necessary corrective to human hubris; to our false sense of mastery over the forces of nature. Which is where the poem ends: a little preachy, I know. But sometimes I indulge.
so vastly indifferent to us.
This is truly turning out to be the year without summer. The weather report dangles a clear sunny day in front of our eyes. But time after time it turns out to be a moving target. August 8, already: time is running out!
Today, again, mixed sun and cloud turned out to be mostly cloud; and a chance of rain turned out to be 100%. But it was a sun shower day more than all-day rain: a dark foreboding sky that would just as suddenly turn an intensely clear blue; and with that delightful phenomenon of the sun shower -- of cool rain with bone deep sun, so you find yourself instantly dry.
When the metaphor of "half full" and "half empty" occurred to me, I realized the crux of the poem: that I could turn the sky into a rumination on temperament and the half full glass.
So, is a day like this half full, or half empty? Being the inherent pessimist, I suppose I'm obliged to go with the latter. But really, no matter what your temperament, the weather complies: look one way, and the sky is full of storm clouds; turn 180 degrees, and it's a beautiful summer day. Not that it matters if the pessimist's dark prediction is confirmed: so what if you're caught in the rain on this sort of day?!! (Even the pessimist who prefers miserable weather gets to feel triumphally vindicated, his pessimism confirmed: just look up, and he can see more damn sun ...lol!)
Not that you can do anything about it, anyway. One thing weather can be counted upon is to keep us humble: a necessary corrective to human hubris; to our false sense of mastery over the forces of nature. Which is where the poem ends: a little preachy, I know. But sometimes I indulge.
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