Abraham's Tree
—dedicated to Sharon

It was said, if only one could know the weather in exactitude 
Over an extended period of time, for example,
The next 72 hours, 

Great fortune would befall—(or was it the stock market?)
  
Anyway, the weather holds inexplicable magic. Little did the moth in Beijing have to do 
To upset the hurricanes of the Atlantic. (Or was it Brazil? 

—And Texas, not the Atlantic?—
 
And butterfly, not moth, with
Giant kaleidoscopic wings pairing fractal signs
Like symmetrical dreams 

Beating through the double-knotted air 

Of five humid months since March?)  No matter, 
No matter, whether I plan to tell-sell you next week's weather

Or you should procure—no, compromise

For some weekly column 
Conjured by slick mobile app (with trendy human-machine interface 
And a glossy cover), 

There remains the great hidden transaction 

Between the clouds and the rain
And the great Abraham's Tree 

Leading warm gushes of wind, uplifting and strong—

Over the horizon,
The animus that they called storm—
Let me finish; let me 

Take an intermissive walk, it'll only be a moment; 

Let me speak—tell-sell you the perfect package of
One impeccable setting 

Of fathomable possibility 

Where we might remain on good terms 
And exchange friendly words
In turns

And have a good time, if 

We had just one good day
With orange sunshine and velvet clouds, 

The rain at just the right hour— 

And the wind, strong and starting, is
Pink and hot and plume and green and marine and silver and gold and content and rich and honey and
Without a doubt, expected. 

Dale Chou
2014-07-06