Forecast

April 9 2016

The rain didn’t come.

Good news, depending.

Like the dog days,

when it’s hard, torrential, cleansing

pelting down.

Shrink-wrapped, in sodden clothes

or stripped to the skin,

slick, brown

water-tight.

Knowing hot sun

can’t be far behind

steaming dry.

Or mixed,

when spring

is prying winter’s grip

from a world encased in ice.

Slop, rain, sleet

tipping to snow.

Because it’s on the margins

where things rub-up against

we are most alive.

The ecstasy, and discontent

of a change in the weather,

inclemency

and chance.

Or gentle, almost mist

on the ochre leaves of fall.

The fields gleaned

dormant trees

resting buds.

Hard brown stubble

and watery light,

the expectancy
of wood-smoke.
The first day

you can see your breath;

when the cold

cuts to the quick

and you clutch your jacket tight.

Showers and cloud, the weatherman said
with a crooked smile
as if to apologize.

As if life 
were an ongoing picnic

Sundays in the park.

As if you were never in the mood for rain,

and the lush green world

mere camouflage.