Weather Permitting

A woman's affection is like the autumn sky.

Inside a fortune cookie

True enough, whether it's warm and blue,

Or mattressed with low clouds and an ambiguous

Prediction of the coldest winter in years.

The woman in mind is even-tempered,

Somewhat vague, and who could blame you

For opting for her climate, chock-full

Of possibility? You were hooked at first,

Safely settled until your recklessness

Began to fade like stars at dawn, and now

A question tugs-whether to stay or go.

Stasis threatens an eventual absorption,

And motion a rootlessness that grows

Lonely after a while. If her affection mirrors

A mood of heaven, yours is even less

Predictable, having come to the conclusion

That it helps sometimes to turn your back

On what seems comfortable and adequate,

If only to exercise control before it

Atrophies completely, if only to prove

You're not tied to reward like a railway track.

So what if her hair rivals the turning leaves,

Or her eyes are overcast sometimes, though blue.

Except: one Sunday in the Berkshires

As twilight fell like a message from the sky,

The lake shone calm and gold, although a lapping

At the shore revealed the water's agitation;

An instance of duplicity which made you

Suspect beauty altogether. But days since then

Have shrunk, and with the branches bare

The sky looks vaster, and emptier.

You pack a suitcase, chart stars

And pressure systems, all the signs that betray

The latest implication of the sky,

As if they could precipitate a move

Or sway your fortune. But the pendulum

Keeps swinging-passivity to passion-

Until after another rough day of learning

Nothing, it's her touch you're looking for.

You pull the blinds, puff the candle out,

And in the dark everything is clear.