The wind again is trying to sing
the wind again in vain,
and as its fury peaks
the winds’ frustration is the rain.
I have noticed this, I have shown you this,
when you ask, as if in wonder;
if wisdom is as wisdom does
or merely brother to the thunder?
The thunder of the rain, again,
in silent shame
at such colorless amusement
wetting so indiscriminately.
Today my friend is not the end
of yesterday’s confusion;
today extends the frail amends
made to that over-used one…
the weatherman.
Today we think the sun is sleeping,
or at least not quite awake;
though up there brightly, shining it still seems
there must be some mistake.
for all the same, it’s getting cold enough
for resolve to freeze and break
Today the sky is not quite cloudy,
still could not be described as clear;
distant clouds are soon forgotten
tho still menacingly near.
Yet he still beams too optimistic,
partly, chance of, maybe so,; using prophecies like knives of reason
he never really learned to throw.