I Am Not Poem PAD April 21, 2015

I Am Not A Meteorologist

But, I can smell snow when leaden

clouds, heavy as pregnant sheep,

lumber over the ridges, baaing

its arrival. In summer, I can smell

rain when the maple leaves turn silver

and the heat, sprawled out over the

city, gets up with fists ready, but rain

pummels the piss out of it, brandishes

the title belt, and the cold front moves

in, sweeping broken branches

and scattered blossoms out of the ring.

I cannot predict the weather,

but neither can the meteorologist.

Kim King © 2015

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