I’ve always believed being a TV weather person (not a fancy meteorologist) would be a lot of fun. I could cheerfully report sunny weather or gravely report armageddon from an important looking Storm Center. I could point to China on the map while describing the weather in Minnesota, and make use of the Vanna White skills I developed in hopes that she would eventually retire and give someone else a chance. Bitter disappointment.
In my job, when I tell people something is going to or not going to happen and then it does, or doesn’t, I’m held accountable. Maybe I should try the weather person response; shrug my shoulders, smile coyly, and advise that everyone carry an umbrella no matter what I say.
What never occurred to me was that I could also wax poetic from time to time. I was watching the news yesterday when the weather person predicted “conversational snowflakes and annoying raindrops.” Wow. Filled with all the passion of a Thomas Kinkade painting, but the guy’s got a point.
When the first flake of snow comes down from the sky we immediately say “it’s snowing!” which is likely to spark a conversation about how much snow, if it’s sticking, if it was predicted, how much will we get and maybe we won’t have to go to school tomorrow! Well, the last one just for a split second until I remember I’m a boring grown up and have to go to work regardless.
We glance out the window again and notice the snow has turned into cold ugly rain. Bah. Crap. Forget all the excitement, these are just annoying raindrops overtaking the snow. Bitter disappointment.
Anyway, I think flowery weather language is the way to go. I predict that tomorrow the life-giving star we call Our Sun will rise, but will our hands and hearts be too full to see it? There just might be puffy clouds that bring the delight of the sweet nothingness of cotton candy. There might be big angry raindrops that remind us the earth is thirsty for the sky. And if so much as a single snowflake falls like magic from the sky, majestic in its complexity and yet as simple as a child’s smile, let us all bare our souls to the sparkly white object of our desire.
And now you know why I don’t write poetry!