Weathergirl Poem by robert dickerson

Go, now, to module six.
First, the real weather. Storms, wakes,

eventual clearing, people
evidently needing different things at different times:

the cruelties-of-the-returning=dictator weather AND
the machinations-of-the-bourgeosie

weather. Wouldn't you say so, Li?
Late at night, the ping of Chekhovs' string

snapping suggests the apple is no longer saffron but blue
existing solely in its aftermath.

New alchemy of light and shadow
how shall we spend thee?

After all these years of self-decoration?
Of picking up jewels on the forest floor

if spottable, glittering
underfoot in moonlight, covered in roan leaves?

Raw, unpolished, uncut,
wholesome in their triangularity:

smokey topaz, ochre tiger's eye,
To-be-gaped-at garnets,

Opals through whose streets angels might tango?
Next stop April and the barges of Spring.