The day will be mainly fine, with only occasional showers,
Which will fall without notice in the most unlikely places,
And mostly calm, despite a gale warning in the southern open spaces.
The temperature will be constant, until it rises or lowers,
At which time the Gods will do their tumbling tricks,
Lighting the sky with grey-and-white movie thrills —
You, waiting there beneath them, concerned with how to pay your bills,
And they, also concerned with how to run their house, flick
On and off celestial switches, governing your life.
Something about them, you see, is difficult to understand.
The weather for one, without the Gods of Fate, might be very bland.
More important than that, do you think you’ll ever understand the strife
Your world is in, or the cynical smile that draws across the face
Of some starving Ethiopian, every time you take your pen in explanation
Of how the world turns and how beautiful flowers are, in versification
Of trees and love and everything in everything’s proper place?