I castigate it if it’s hot;
I give it thunder when it’s not.
I pray for rainfall when it’s dry;
And when rain wets me, wonder why.
With snow I stand in firm cahoots
Until I have to pull on boots.
Continuously, I deplore it–
Until it’s perfect, then ignore it.
The weather must (if weather can)
Resent vagaries of this man.
by Ray Romine Saturday, November 10, 1951
