Meteorology

I
You and your hollow promises.

Eager as a child on Christmas,
I awaken early, craving
the snow you forecast.

Ninety percent chance, you said.
Two to three inches.

Liar.

Decades of deceit;
countless disappointments.
Why do I still trust you?

You’re no better than
Lucy, promising that
this time, this time,

you will hold the
football steady,
and me, Charlie Brown —

credulous, earnest —
running headlong toward
your empty assurance,

squandering again
my precious optimism,
as if it were endless.

II
Keep your green screen.

Inwardly, a trough advances;
within it, a depression.

Even now, clouds gather,
a legion of bruised
expectations, their

breath a tumult
of wind. These skies,
mercurial, will not clear

without delivering
the promised storm.

I can count on it.

III
The day breaks clear.
Sun gilds late
leaves clinging

to bone-dry
branches, stubborn
as a pout. They

might have crumbled
beneath my boots,
disappeared in snow.

Wet-nosed deer —
this year’s fawns —
graze the last green grass.

Crap.

These obstinate, alternate
wonders, always pranking
my preferences.

IV
Becoming dark tonight,
lightening toward morning.
Continuing, widespread uncertainty.

Intermittent broken promises;
inverted expectations.

Significant beauty
accumulating everywhere.

You can count on it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Tags: Charlie Brown, creative writing, expectation, forecast, humor, meteorology, Peanuts, poem, poetry, seasons, spirituality, weather, winter