Uncertain Weather

Last night as you stood on the porch
you could smell the rain, heavy in the air,
a sense of threat in this neck of the woods
where the ground is already saturated,
The creeks are high.

This morning, the sun shines.
It is hot and it is humid.
In the distance, haze covers the mountains,
but here, now, in this moment
it is a perfect summer’s day.
Still, the creeks are high.

Down south, lashing the Long Island coast,
a hurricane, a rare thing for New England, lands.
Soon, you are told, it will find itself here,
Far inland, and rain. Rain and rain.
I cannot smell it yet, but before the afternoon is done
I will.

The creeks are high.
you have lived on the edge of floods for a week,
a flurry of thunderstorms, violent and random,
uncertain weather. Too much of it.
It adds up and now, when the water runs high,
and you are certain of floods
no matter what comes.

About this poem

A poem about the weather, right now, in Vermont as Hurricane Henri works it’s way north. A poem about (Because poems are rarely about one thing.) about anxiety and how it piles on us to the point where we become paralyzed, even if things are not as bad as we imagine.

Either way, there are floods.

The title is blatantly stolen (with her blessing) from a painting from my friend, writer and artist, Rachel Barlow. The picture was taken just down the road from me in West Pawlet, VT.

Tom