It takes about fifteen minutes to drive between the kids’ school and work. In that time this morning, the rain, which had been coming down with grim determination since yesterday, went opaque and started bouncing off my windshield. By the time I reached the parking lot, there was half an inch of the stuff icing the sidewalks and streets.
I can’t lie to myself any longer. It’s snowing.
I’d already chosen a weather-themed poem for today but even though it doesn’t fit in a literal way at the moment, the general feeling works for me. And there’s some satisfaction, I’ve recently discovered, in saying that the repetitive final line through your teeth as you look outside at the cats and dogs and cows and sheep and ducks and other meteorological livestock falling from the sky and remember that you’ve left your umbrella at home:
Clown Song from Twelfth Night
(William Shakespeare)
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that’s all one, our play is done,
And we’ll strive to please you every day.
But considering the sudden unwanted reminder that January isn’t done with us yet, I’m sharing another one that truly reflects my mood today:
Winter: A Dirge
(Robert Burns)
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (O, do Thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
No one understands weather like a Scotsman.
And now, if you don’t mind, I have to go scrape the %$#!%ing snaw off my car . . .
Earful of Cider 