Today, it seems that our balmy spring is gone. It’s rainy and grey, and resembles a normal Washington April, which we had thus far avoided. This morning, I turned up the heat and pulled out some poetry books to leaf through on the couch, but my daughter kept pulling them from my hands and placing “Winnie the Pooh” ones there instead. This mixture – Eeyore’s gloom, Jorie Graham’s metaphysical twists, and Cynthia Atkins’ poems touching on the weather – feels perfect for today.
I wanted to share this excerpt from Atkins’ poem, “Stormy Weather,” from her excellent book of poems, Psyche’s Weathers, which perfectly captures the powerlessness we feel when nature suddenly changes the terms:
Elsewhere, insects run for cover.
As if the arrangements were made
ahead of time, the sky prepares, pokes
a subtle rumble like something spoken
under the breath – because threat
is an important element. By proxy,
the clouds take drastic measures
as if to warn us that the terms
are still being set.