Outside, even the crows
are quiet this morning,
seeking a warmth
that eludes us all.
We all know winter
has finally arrived
as we shiver and try
so very hard to remember
the warmth of summer,
the bloom of the lilacs
and the magnolia petals
to mark our path.
He screwed up his face into the scowl
that fairly shouted to all, “Don’t Ask!”.
She knew better but knew also that she
had no choice, “What’s the matter now?”
“It’s just,” he said, softening a bit, “that
I so seldom get the weather I need,
much less the weather I want, it’s never
the sort I ask, no matter how nicely I put it.”
She threw caution to the wind, smiled
and said, “It isn’t, of course, that the weather
isn’t what you ask, it most certainly
almost always is. It is simply that the weather
is perfect and you always show up
in precisely the wrong place to enjoy it.”
Tomorrow will arrive
as each day before it:
it will snow
or not snow, rain
or not rain or be sunny
or perhaps some combination.
At this time tomorrow
darkness will settle in
and the clouds, if there are any
will shroud the moon
if there is any, and, if not
the street light outside
our window will
be lonely yet again.