Poetry

Meteorology

I can predict the future. A little. And everyone loves 

to talk about the weather. I find what patterns I can, stay

a day or two ahead of what’s happening. Sometimes it’s hail, 

a rash of red light on the display screens. Flattening wind –

that’s blue and white, much like in real life. I love the way 

rain’s called showers, which implies comfort. 

Of course it’s not an exact science. You trust the sky 

to tell the truth and then find that it lied. 

Here’s a beach, here’s a nor’easter polishing 

the ocean. Sometimes I think of all that air piled on us, 

how it pushes us down. It’s what keeps us here. Weather’s never 

late or early, never feels distant or overly rehearsed.

Some nights I watch the man who delivers it to camera. 

He took a special course to learn to move in reverse. 

Griffith Review