I’ve heard it’s hard to forecast over sea:
the ocean brings surprises to the West.
The instruments detect a tendency,
but here my window tells the weather best.
My phone says we’ll have clouds but I see rain
outside, and carry gear to keep me snug.
Predictions for next week do not contain
the certainty I’m craving like a drug.

Just so, I never know what life will bring.
I have a good idea about the week
immediately coming but can’t guess
ahead a year. I don’t know anything
about my health next month or what I’ll seek
when summer comes, or how I’ll live with less.

This entry was posted in Aging, Poetry, Weather and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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