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The Girl Next Door
and Other Poems

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The Weather Girl

Ralph Monday

Storms across the screen wiping away
moisture, accumulated ice, clearing
minds of years of tattered weather,
like a tsunami washing clean the mind’s detritus.
We cannot stop watching. We need her
to point the way, a weathervane predicting
day’s journey.
Our obsession, dressed one day in red, the next
black, winter white, heels clicking like Dorothy
because there’s no place like the studio, she
glides like a hawk in freefall, guide to our
seasons.
She explains the heat, our thirst for the desert,
shifting fronts, how it only takes a little pressure.
Highs and lows, snowcapped mountains like
towering breasts; a glib brunette, blonde, or
redheaded meteorological interpreter, eye of
the storm messiah, baptism found in rushing
tides, communion drinking slush, her skirts
a ritual TV robe.
Without her we are lost, headless weather people
lacking a barometer, not knowing when to barbecue,
shoes to wear, clothes to don.
The weather goddess is the great pixelated mother.
When we go to sea, interstated land, clear or stormy
skies, her Delphic microphone pronouncements, nodding,
returns us to the time of sages speaking from dark,
blind caves. We become children of moon, sun,
stars, her offspring.
When the screen is flat and blank, the spell remains
where eyelids of morning cast us into that predicted day.



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