We’re halfway through our winter, and had one
impressive storm, with nothing more offshore
than ridges of tenacious highs. The sun
is too persistent, and the temperature
abuses plants and squirrels. Every bird
acts out of season. Daffodils appear.
The weatherpeople don’t pronounce the word
that starts with “D,” but I declare this year
a bust for decent rain, another length
of drought and devastation for the state.
This weather bothers me – it saps my strength
of will, and though my friends appreciate
the sun on naked arms, the dreary cheered,
I’m never mellow when the weather’s weird.