To the Weather, Being A Pome About What is Not Happening Outside

To the window they pressed their noses close

with a fevered hope that matched the chill

of outside drear and cloud: a hoped-for thrill

a night of hefty drifts and angels made of snow.

But oh what was there to be done
upon spying the sight of such a wet night
their wish gone to melt neath a midnight sun!

They had missed their chance to show up the right coast
to shout, “See! You’ve nothing over which to boast!”

A childish foot-stomp, cap without a feather,
“And you always say that we’ve no such thing as weather!”