Circular Weather Girl Poem Poem by Sally Evans

She probes the wintry weather, her voice oiled
and golden, warns of the violet-hued storm,
reports the deluge flooding yard and lawn
like a spring haiku thawing icicles.
She points to where the cherry blossoms fall
that still lie wrapped in cherry leaves, the wall
waiting to be hidden by leaf and blob.

A goddess, or a sort of priest with sisters
she waves away the Atlantic squall: she deals
in chance percentages of rainy blusters
born in the doldrums, off Biscay or Faroe.
her every isobar travels through a spring
of butterflies - Gauguan dreams, Pissaro
or Botticelli Floras riding bicycles.

She is the weather girl, our newest myth,
our crowned queen, Cinderella, our blind date.
She comes to life when Barbie dools in moonlight
have lesbian affaris with women graduates.
The cherry blossom looks like rags, but pigeons
and rooks wait for those cherries, in their religions
her [umpkin riches can't be marred or spoiled.

She probes the wintry weater, her voice oiled.

[1997]