No Weather to Speak Of - March 25 2022

 

No Weather to Speak Of

March 25 2022

Before weather reports

people woke up in the morning

not knowing what to expect.

The natural world was God's work, after all,

ours

acceptance

reverence

gratitude.

Not to mention

that prediction was sorcery

the devil at play.

I don't believe in heaven or hell,

but nevertheless

I mute the weatherman,

skip the page

where the forecast is printed,

have turned off all alerts.

And instead

greet the new day

looking up at the sky

with anticipation and delight,

fatalistic

about whatever comes,

open to a sudden shift

change in plan.

The one area of my life

I free myself

from all illusion,

relinquishing control,

accepting my smallness,

submitting

to how utterly powerless I am.

To acts of God

and chaos theory.

A volcano

on the far side of the planet

spewing ash,

a butterfly

flapping its wings.

Today

dull, cool, calm.

No weather to speak of.

Tomorrow, who knows?

Thunder, gale, snow

an arctic cold snap.

Surprised, each day

watching the sky change;

a finger in the wind

galoshes by the door

umbrella in its stand.

I wasn't sure how to end this poem. But as soon as galoshes came to mind, I knew it was time. What a delightful word! In and of itself, makes the long way there worth it.

Please don't take this poem as autobiographical. I check the weather report pretty much every day. I am not good at spontaneity or changing plans. I still frustrate myself seeking to control things (although I'm not hubristic enough to think I can the weather!), notwithstanding my acknowledgement that I am powerless and insignificant. And I never use and don't own an umbrella! No galoshes, either, I sheepishly admit.