By Andrew R. Duckworth
The weather speaks an odd language
That we hopelessly try to interpret.
If it can be better than predicted,
It can also be worse.
I wonder whether the crops will live.
Perhaps I planted them too early.
In a week, I would have
Planted them too late.
One day a coat, the next shorts.
That is Texas spring, I’m told.
A round of hail storms, lightning,
And tornadoes are possible.
And yet, every other place
Has to fight their own plague.