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