The Weatherman

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.