Making Conversation
June 20 2026
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
The clouds were a mix
of fluffy white and dirty grey,
closing and parting
to reveal a bright blue sky
and high summer sun.
The sudden heat
coming so abruptly on a dull wet day
felt like the gods were toying with us,
quickly drying the rain
which would only fall again
in short light showers.
Mercurial, to say the least.
The weather changing
like a racing mind
that whipsaws from manic to morose
benighted to benign.
But at least something to talk about
with strangers you’re stuck in line with,
talkative baristas
when the lunch rush has died,
and distant relatives
on family occasions
whose names you can’t keep straight.
If only the thunderstorm had veered this way.
Lightning cracking the sky,
Sheets of rain
pinging off the pavement,
and hail
battering the glass.
Wind-whipped trees
bent like willow wands,
their leaves
twisting madly
and straining at their stems.
Something really good to say
in those awkward lulls.
The opening stanza is exactly what it felt like today. A little of everything!
Which left an impression, so I just started by describing it, while also fearing it would end up becoming another of my tiresome “weather poems” — something I try to avoid, because they tend to have little humanity, emotion, or even point.
But, as often happens, the poem wrote its own way out. Who knew it would end up being about that awkward social imperative of “making conversation”?
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