The Weather Man

Raining on the inside

The Weather Man

The pre-dawn dreams had returned
tortuous, ponderous wandering plays
at once the old house and not the old house
its vibrant paint peeling away
old wood ribs bared to the elements
strange neighbor voyeurs looking on
as he followed some lovers room by room
the wild pull of shame to run
the molasses resistance in his limbs
the dream sense that he should stay
that this and this alone was real

He awoke raining on the inside
not thunderous, a tedious rain pouring in
pooling in his legs, rising to his lungs
a sluggish and melancholy rain
wishing for sun and one day later
his wish granted in some other dream
fickle and surreal, familiar faces betrayed

He awoke to a desert within him
prickly and dry, needling, searing
when he moved, his joints surged electric
the scraggle of stinging sensations
a sighing sweep of heat, grit grinding
between his teeth and in his veins
today as a desert he’d weep if he had any tears
what he had was longing for murky dreams
his sense for the weather, a hard memory

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The holidays are here already. My new poetry book BURNING HORSES makes a great holiday gift for poetry readers. Or get it for yourself! —>

The rain gave way to snow. We’ve had two weekends in a row of silent Saturday snowfalls, both beautiful. I managed to get the noisy snowblower going both Sunday mornings to get it out of the way and venture out for me Sunday routines, which usually includes writing more poetry. Soon my kids will come home for Christmas visits and softer memories. We’ll have Mexican food and hot chocolate and pan-seared steak and more movie line quotes than we should and a required dose of George Bailey getting the right kind of rich. I’ve already got another poem for you for next time. Please keep your likes and comments coming. They always warm me up.

CODA