Vandaag is het de verjaardag van mijn liefje, het is de 29ste keer dat we
dit samen vieren. Later op de dag komen enkele vrienden en buren dat luister
bijzetten. Voorlopig regent het...
¡Cumpleaños feliz!
Weather Girl Poem
She probes the wintry weather, her voice oiled
and golden, warns of the violet-hued storm,
reports the deluge flooding yard and lawn
like a spring haiku thawing icicles.
She points to where the cherry blossoms fall
that still lie wrapped in cherry leaves, the wall
waiting to be hidden by leaf and blob.
A goddess, or a sort of priest with sisters
she waves away the Atlantic squall: she deals
in chance percentages of rainy blusters
born in the doldrums, off Biscay or Faroe.
Her every isobar travels through a spring
of butterflies - Gauguan dreams, Pissaro
or Botticelli Floras riding bicycles.
She is the Weather Girl, our newest myth,
our crowned queen, Cinderella, our blind date.
She comes to life when Barbie dolls in moonlight
have lesbian affairs with women graduates.
The cherry blossom looks like rags, but pigeons
and rooks wait for those cherries, in their religions
her pumpkin riches can't be marred or spoiled.
She probes the wintry weather, her voice oiled.
and golden, warns of the violet-hued storm,
reports the deluge flooding yard and lawn
like a spring haiku thawing icicles.
She points to where the cherry blossoms fall
that still lie wrapped in cherry leaves, the wall
waiting to be hidden by leaf and blob.
A goddess, or a sort of priest with sisters
she waves away the Atlantic squall: she deals
in chance percentages of rainy blusters
born in the doldrums, off Biscay or Faroe.
Her every isobar travels through a spring
of butterflies - Gauguan dreams, Pissaro
or Botticelli Floras riding bicycles.
She is the Weather Girl, our newest myth,
our crowned queen, Cinderella, our blind date.
She comes to life when Barbie dolls in moonlight
have lesbian affairs with women graduates.
The cherry blossom looks like rags, but pigeons
and rooks wait for those cherries, in their religions
her pumpkin riches can't be marred or spoiled.
She probes the wintry weather, her voice oiled.
Sally Evans (1942)
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